THE PRINCE OF 

I EEU S ION 










^ ^ 0 , X <\ 

^ '^, .-J.' 


^ ,0 


xO o >■ 

O ^ ^ O . 

i, ^ n ^ f ^ » 1 ' s >> o r 

:^/Ai : 



V </>. 


A'^■' 




5 >° '=^. ' 

^ cO ^ ^ 

M ^ ^ ff I “V 

, 0 ^ ^ ^ ^ 0 ^ 

•j> '■jX^S^A,*' '^- X 

%%'i' 





* d.X'’ '". 'a'^'-* '" % 

x' . 0 ~ C /?r>' ..'''/. X ^ , 0 ~ c , %" ■ • . 





'^o 0 ^ 


4 ^ => 

' S » ^ 0 N 0 • 



a' 


\' x" 


// 



A 



^ ^ ■i>, ■» 

^ ^ 7 

A\\ 

♦ 0. 

\ ^ 





X'^' ^ 1 ^ '’A 

" ° ^ P <V X, 

* .^\W/ j ^y ^ 


r y%\ 

\A ^ c '^-r- "‘ >-' 

‘A .. 0 C fl *- Q 




o 


,- 0 ‘ 


•x V 

o o' 




a'^ 

■i 

. : xo : „ 

— w - ^ 

•J^ ^ ^ ^ ^ I 

y * ' ' '*\y-- * ’ ^”;</ % 


O.A J- 

A r 




ci' ^ ^ A-’ 

'^r> ' ^ « s A 

^X- r 0 ‘ X* 

✓ x A 

« O o' 

« 4 -y 

- xV ^ " 

x^- \y ^ 0 s 

V ' 'z ^ 








1 












)5 





0 N 



\\ 

^V i:v 







o 


V 


j> <» 




V ^ ' '' 



<7 ^ 




'J 








0^ V 


-f^ ^ 

^sC-» y' 

. V"*,K 0 ’.. 


\0°x. 


^ ' o , . ^ „ 

V .°'>S 


,0' 











o 




AV 


. '^ '\ '' 

,/ .'ll' 



it it 


\ ' fi 


V 



V 

o 0 


H 'Tl 



-'^ J> _rv£S^ O 




^ 9 \ ^ 

’■ 0 ^ C^ 

t>. ^ 



0- 
it 

« -) r-. i, 

X#’ .-0 '% ^ 



"o o'^' 


H v* 




U \ \ 




^2^ - 2^ 
<->< ^ ^ 

-V ® 

.^v’ <^■ . ■-. 

* ^ '* ^ « ''K& 



y 







0 Jt K 


O ^ ^ ^ s 


0 



1 


A* 


> V 


o 



’"bo'" 


'' \\^ 

</> 

'/ vC 

'' \G^ ^ 0 ij V 

,v 1 B ^ -<5, A^ c 


(.> ^ 


ff 1 





> ^ 


V 









V </>. 




y<‘ .V» 




V 


b<. " 

C<' 

c- ^ 

J M O ^ •, <r o 

'/ s « ^Wwva ^ : 2 

'"V 

A c" -9. 0_ fO \ ^y, 'P .jr^'\v».^. 






O C^ I- 

^ \0 ' 





A'^' ''-y 











V 




c5>. 


: ^- 

X ^(p ^O ^ >, 

' aO^ 

A ^ (2 . -P . 



> J 




y> 




A ' '"o 


.-.V b: 



A' ON C- . 


it * 





C 


^N* „ \ ' B ft 


0 ^ K 


A 


O 







^ A 


0 o 


A-.^' * .- s 0 ’ 




-• ‘*^ *" * C v^" ^ ^ 

Xf *W4 /a/ ■•X'^ 'W 


t- ■ *• 


A « 






•I'l i\ 


[*. 


*. . * 


k « 


V ^ 


-“ -* 




^ t«« w4*?-* ’* ' \‘ 






THE PRINCE OE ILLUSION 





f,' 




f 


I 



By 

John 

Luther 

Long 


The Prince of Illusion 
“Dolce” 

Ein Nix-Nutz 

The Honorable Christmas 
Gift of Yoshida Aramidzu 

V 

> 


“Dizzy Dave” 

Author 


The Horse Trade 

of 


“ Jane an’ Me” 

Madame 


The Dream Woman 

Butter- 


flyf 



etc. 








1 






The Century Co. 

New York . . . mcmi 




V.IR 





THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Recfiveo 

MAR. 28 1901 

Copyright entry 

CLASS O^XXo. No, 

39%7 

COPY A. 





Copyriglit, 1898, 1900, 1901, by 

The Century Co. 

Copyright, 1899, 1901, by the 
Curtis Publishing Company 
Copyright, 1898, by 
Peter Fenelon Collier 
Copyright, 1900, by 
John Brisben Walker 
Copjk-ight, 1899, by 
John Luther Long 


All rights reserved 


f C A < 

r * ‘ ‘ 

^ < t ( 

c C ( 

< ( C L ( ( 


f < < <- f ( f C 

< C C C 

( t C < (. < 

< t ( t 

( < < < r ( 



c ( 
( 

( ( 


< 

< 


< 

c 

c 

( 


THE DE VINNE PRESS 


To 

Birth and Death, to Tears and Joy — 

To Life ! (For these are its Alloy.) 

These Dirges ! — Sung by Sprites and Elves, 
These Songs ! — Intoned by Wardering Selves. 
Let Sorrow laugh ! Let Laughter weep, 

And us the Incantation keep 

Which gives to Life, when need is there. 

The Smile, the Laugh, the Sigh, the Tear ! 


CONTENTS 


The Prince op Illusion 

PAGB 

I What You Are to Know First 3 

II The Splendid Room 5 

m Himself 10 

rv Herself 20 

V The Button on the Prince’s Coat 34 

VI Dan 41 

VII The Passing of the Ships 42 

VIII The One Retainer of the Prince 51 

IX When Siegfried Died 55 

X What the Doctor Said : What the Mother Did .... 61 
XI And He Was a Prince 68 

“Dolce” 73 

Ein Nix-Nutz 

I Ain’t It It?” 123 

II The Bad Fiddle of the Good-for-Nothing 133 

III The Taking Off (and on again) of Betsy 147 

IV A Kind of Stuff Called Love 150 

V “ The Madonna of the Wash-Tub ” 159 

VI A Leopard Without His Spots 161 

VII Well — Was Not Her Name Love-Heart ? 166 

The Honorable Christmas Gift of Yoshida 
Aramidzu 

I ’Bout Those Dis-guise 175 

II But Tom Had Him Already 180 

III No Use Trying to Explain What Christmas Is 184 

rv The Sweetest Thing 187 


CONTENTS 


viii 

“ Dizzy Dave ” 

PAGE 

I The Dearest Spot on Earth to Dave 197 

II It Cost Her Her Heart — and Him a Dollar 200 

III The Blue-Eyed Griffin Named Gooley 203 

IV His Brains Were Mixed and His Heart Was n’t Right . 206 

V She — and Something Else 210 

VI The Queen of the M. G. R 213 

VII The Coming of the Pale Young Man 216 

VIII “ If You Ain’t Got No Money — ^Well, You Need n’t Come 

Around ” 219 

IX The Khaki Uniform 221 

The Horse Trade 

I At the Golden Swan in 1740 227 

II Home on the Spavined Mare 233 

III The False Bottom in the Brass-Bound Chest 236 

“Jane An’ Me” 

I The Time of the Trundle-Bed 245 

II You Can’t Eat Love ! 248 

III When Jane Saw Jess 251 

IV The Unicorns 254 

V Tum-Te-Tum, Tum-Te-Tum ! 259 

VI “To All Whom It May Consam ” 263 

VII Guns for the General’s Breakfast 269 

VIII Jess Never Got Back 273 

IX ? 277 

The Dream Woman 

I “ Just Before the Battle ” 283 

II The Small Red Shoe 288 

III Juanita 293 

rv He Compelled Her to Tell 297 

V The Note of the Bugle 302 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 





THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


I 

WHAT YOU ARE TO KNOW FIRST 

F irst you are to be told why and how he be- 
came a prince, for he was only a poor little 
boy living in a mean tenement. 

The doctors said that he would always be blind 
and lame, and that he would probably not live be- 
yond his tenth year; and if he were to live even so 
long as that, every pulsation must be watched, al- 
most every breath. Then, if he had no sorrows— not 
one, if his heart were kept full of joy, he would 
almost certainly live the ten years. 

‘‘If not?” It was the young mother who asked 
the question. 

“Madam, it will be ten years of sacrifice,” was 
the answer. 

“It will be ten years of joy !” she said. 

But those who are born blind, the doctors warned 
her, are born with fancies, illusions, of which even 
mothers have little understanding. These must be 
made real, no matter how strange, no matter how 
impossible, if there is to be joy, until the mind has 
3 


4 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


matured the fortitude to undergo disillusion. This 
child, they told her, would probably be as sensible 
as a spirit to beauty and as sensitive as a spirit to 
what was unbeautiful. Of the existence of ugliness, 
squalor, he must not know at all, unless he should 
pass the ten years they gave him; and then slowly, 
gradually, with care, with every effect watched. 
But of things beautiful, joyous, splendid, uplifting, 
he might learn all that she could teach him, and 
more. There could not be too much of beauty and 
joy and splendor in his life. So the wise doctors 
said; and the mother would have accomplished all 
this if they had told her that he would live only ten 
minutes longer by reason of it. 

His familiarity with things of a princely nature 
came first with her reading to him; for it happened 
that the books she read were thus cast, and that it 
was these he fancied most. What boy does not? 
She could not tell exactly when the idea that he 
himself was a prince first possessed him, so gradual 
was it; but she could not misunderstand, presently, 
that he conceived himself one with those she read 
about. Once she tried timorously to undeceive him, 
the delusion seemed so monstrous; but she had not 
spoken five words when she saw terror waken in his 
eyes. 

Then she remembered the warnings of the doctors 
and resolved that he should be a prince, an emperor, 
if he wished, if it gave him pleasure. If the ten 
years were all, why, he would know in heaven, where 
also her forgiveness was. If he was to live beyond 
that, God would help her. 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


6 


‘‘Oh, he shall be a prince!’’ 

She said it with a thrill, standing in the middle 
of her lamp-lighted room, with her hands upraised, 
and something royal in herself. 


II 

THE SPLENDID ROOM 

Her room had only one window, and the shutter of 
that opened against another wall, so that it gave 
only an inch or two of daylight, and no sunlight. 
All day a lamp burned; all day she sewed. Now 
and then she would stop to fan the heated air out 
through the door and the window. Nothing was 
there which was not absolutely essential. A dun- 
colored curtain closed the door to the other room. 
There, beyond the curtain, she lived his life of 
beauty and joy with him. Here, apart from him, 
she lived her own, of sorrow', penance, despair. So, 
her room was like a nun’s cell, and she like a nun; 
his was like the cabinet of a prince, and he like a 
prince. Only once it sobbed from her behind the 
curtain that there, where the splendor was, was 
falsehood, which she hated; that here, where the 
squalor was, was truth, which she adored. Only 
once— and that was long ago. 

The other side was of golden damask richly bro- 
caded. The walls were pale yellow and rose, in the 
shadows dimly blending into warmth. There was 


6 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


a huge window which had been made splendid with 
paper imitations of painted glass in the tone of the 
room, and so skilfully had it all been done that it 
gave one entering the sense of great richness and 
largess. 

Facing the door was a bed of dainty white enamel, 
canopied, frilled, chiffoned, with all its belongings 
immaculate. 

Enveloped in all this splendor of color was the 
occupant of the bed, a boy of nine years, but look- 
ing tragically older. He was sallow, hollow-cheeked, 
with elfin locks and eyes deep-set and leaden. Not 
a feature of him was tolerable. He was ugly. 

She who sewed in the outer room, and always lis- 
tened, was arrested and rose to her feet in expecta- 
tion. The sound had been the coy herald of a rip- 
pling laugh which now came from the splendid room 
—an almost impossible laugh for such a boy. The 
mother parted the curtains, and stood between them 
smiling. 

‘‘Mama, are you there?’’ shouted the boy, joy- 
ously. 

His voice was a surprise; it was like the room, 
rich with color. 

“Yes, sweetheart,” answered his mother in tones 
which curiously matched his own, yet soft, melo- 
dious, intelligent— a mother’s voice answering her 
child. 

“Well, are n’t you ever going to come to me?” 
he complained speciously. 

“Yes; but you must not shout so.” 


THE PRINCE OP ILLUSION 


7 


^‘7 was n’t angry, mama darling,” said the boy 
sweetly. “That was just fun.” 

“Of course,” said his mother. 

She sat on the bedside, taking his hands. 

“But I could n’t help it, mama dear, it was so 
funny. It slipped right out.” 

He had brought his tones to quite the pleasant 
pitch of hers, and one understood now where he 
got them. He was laughing a little. 

*^What was it, dear? and why was it funny?” 

“Why, everything you have read me about and 
told me about has been beautiful, gorgeous, splen- 
did! Of course, I ’m glad; but, mama dear, there 
must be something dreadful— ugly ?” 

There was a tremor in the mother’s voice as pres- 
ently, after thinking, she answered : 

“What makes you fancy that?” 

“Why, must n’t there be something ugly to make 
the rest seem beautiful? How can you tell? See, 
I have been thinking.” 

“No, sweetheart, the world is all beautiful. The 
splendid things need nothing to compare them with 
to tell us who see that they are splendid. That is 
a mistake. You must not think mistakes. The sun 
does not need the darkness to make it seem splendid. 
It is splendid in the full light of day.” 

“But, mama darling, is n’t there one— just one 
little thing in all the world that is dreadful?” 

She hesitated. His pretty voice pleaded with her 
ineffably. She must not unnecessarily deny him the 
truth, neither must she make him sad with it. This 
was the terror that she faced always, and more and 


8 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


more as his intelligence fed upon hers. Was it bet- 
ter that he should know, and grieve for the know- 
ledge; or that he should yearn to know, with an 
avidity that was consuming, and never know? The 
doctors had not at all forecast this strange phase of 
his development. She herself had learned that there 
was peril either way. And sometimes, as to-day, 
she chose the way of truth, with its peril, because 
she was so desperately weary of falsehood. Is that 
strange? Know, then, that at times she agonized 
for the truth. For, now that it was denied her, it 
seemed royally precious. Once prevarication had 
not appeared heinous, but now she loathed it. Some- 
times it seemed as if she could not live without some 
physical manifestation of truth; but there was no 
place to find it save in her bleak room. Here, often, 
she did find it, on the bleared walls, in the inch or 
two of daylight; and it healed her. 

‘‘Mama, I want something to be ugly, dreadful— 
as dreadful as possible— just some one little thing. 
I shall be horribly disappointed if there is n’t. I 
don’t like to think and think and then be— disap- 
pointed. ’ ’ 

The little boy insisted upon it with whimsical im- 
patience, as if she might produce what he wished 
if she would. 

“But why, dearest?” she asked, to temporize. 

“Oh, because.” 

The reason was so weak that he added others— 
almost as weak. 

“It will be something entirely new. And you 
will tell me about it. Sometimes I get tired— just 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


9 


a little, mama dear, of everything being beautiful, 
and wonder whether ugly things would n’t be nice, 
only for a change,— maybe beautiful themselves; 
that is what I was thinking about. ’ ’ 

The boy nestled to her with a caress. She flung 
up her arms as she did sometimes when the passion 
smote her, and a great weariness showed in her eyes, 
and that hunger for the truth came which was so 
hard to quell. She did not quite vanquish it to-day. 

^‘Yes,” she said; ‘‘there is one sad thing in the 
world, but I cannot tell you about it. I have never 
seen it— but— but once; and you— never will.” 

The little boy’s interest caught. 

“What is it called, mama dear?” 

“The name will tell you nothing.” 

“Please, mama darling!” 

“Will you promise not to think of it, not to let 
it make you unhappy, and that you will tell me if 
it does, the least bit?” 

“Why, mama, of course. Now, what is it called?” 

“Death.” 

“Death?” 

He tried the sound of the word curiously. 

‘ ‘ Death. It does n ’t sound dreadful, mama dear ; 
not at all. Is it sad? Are you sure?” 

It had not hurt him, so she let herself answer, 
though at the end she halted. 

“Very sad.” 

“Tell me more about it. You see it has not made 
me unhappy.” 

“I do not know— much more.” 

“But when you know you will tell me all, won’t 


10 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


you, mama dear, because there are to be no secrets 
between us, remember. You said that yourself. 
But now tell me what little you know. Don’t be 
afraid, mama.” 

“Men have called it glorious.” To herself she 
said: “Oh, God! Glorious!” 

“That is fine,” said Jack. Then, with a lapse of 
his interest, he asked: “Is that all you know, 
mama?” Evidently something else had displaced 
that. 

“Yes; to-night.” 

“But you will tell me all about it when you 
know ? ’ ’ 

“Yes; when I know.” 

“And you will not forget? Forgive me, mama; 
you never forget.” 

“I will not forget, sweetheart.” 

She sighed her relief. The truth had not hurt 
him; it had brought them closer together. She felt 
that it had been good. 


Ill 

HIMSELF 

“But, mama, that was n’t the only funny thing,” 
the little boy went on gaily. “See how I have just 
been thinking ! You have told me about everything 
in the world but myself! And I never thought of it 
before; and of course you did n’t. Now, is n’t that 
funnier still? Tell me now, mama— right now!” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


11 


The peace he had given her was gone. She shiv- 
ered, and put his hands down. 

‘ ‘ Oh, have I displeased you, mama ? Is that why 
you shiver?’’ 

^‘No.” 

She had only the one Avord for him, spoken very 
softly— that he might not know her terror. 

“Your hands are cold. Let me warm them.” 

He reclaimed the hands she had taken away, and 
tucked them with his own under the Avarm covers. 
Then he nestled against her. This he did awk- 
wardly, as all his caressing. But now the mother 
swept him into her arms. He liked that, the swift, 
strong passion of it, and for a while was silent; but 
he did not forget. 

“Don’t you think it funny— to tell your little boy 
about all the world and everything in it but him- 
self?” He stopped suddenly, and then whispered, 
“Mama— did n’t you— wish— to tell me?” 

She could feel him grow rigid. Then, clinging to 
her arms, he climbed up, and tried to look into 
her eyes. 

“Jack,” she half pleaded, half chided, “why are 
you so strange?” 

He did not heed her; his face had grown gray; 
his heart palpitated against hers; on his forehead, 
which he put against her own, was a mist. 

“Mama, darling,” he whispered, “can it be that 
you are— afraid— to tell me? Am 1 ugly— like 
death ? Mama ! ’ ’ 

The last was a stabbing cry. A spasm closed the 
mother’s throat. She strove piteously for a word. 


12 


THE PEINCE OF HiLUSION 


It came like a piccolo-note. Then she was able 
to wring a little laugh from within. 

‘‘I suppose that is why I never thought of it— 
because you are so much a part of all that is beau- 
tiful in the world.” 

The boy relaxed upon her as if she had given 
him back life. He believed instantly. 

“Oh, mama, is it true? Am I beautiful like all 
the rest? For a moment I was afraid. Something 
stopped down here. ’ ’ He put his hand to his heart, 
and the mother shivered again. ‘ ‘ Forgive me, mama 
dear! Of course it is true. But tell me; it is so 
sweet to hear. Do you know what I thought when 
the thing within stopped ? ’ ’ 

“No,” 'she answered. 

“That if I were ugly, like death, I should never 
wish to see.” 

“No,” she said soothingly; “nor— nor should I 
wish it. ’ ’ 

“I know that you are beautiful. I can feel your 
hair and eyes and lips and cheeks, all quite as if I 
saw them. Your hair is warm, your cheeks are soft, 
your eyes have long lashes; but my hair and cheeks 
and lashes”— he began to touch them in doubt— 
‘ ‘ they are not quite like yours. ’ ’ 

She stopped him there. Peril was imminent. 
She had mastered her emotions, as she had taught 
herself long ago to do; it must be falsehood now. 
So her voice went on, no more wdth tremors, but 
calm, strong, soothing, majestic. She took his hands 
from their search, and held them in her own. 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


13 


‘‘Do not trust your hands, darling, but my eyes. 
You are the most beautiful thing in all the whole 
world— do you hear ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,’^ he whispered in ecstasy. “And oh, think 
of all the splendid things you have told me ! ^ ’ 

“Yet you are more splendid.” She touched him 
affectionately and wiped the damp from his fore- 
head. 

“Yes,” said Jack, quite satisfied. “It seems so 
strange to forget it. But I understand. You see 
me every day. ’ ’ His brief chiding was full of love. 
“Mama,”— this was the result of a moment of 
thought, but it was not fearful or doubtful,— “you 
don’t mean that I am beautiful to you, because you 
love me, don’t you know? Mama darling, I should 
love you if you were the ugliest being that ever 
lived, just because— oh, because— I love you.” He 
laughed. “Oh, yes; you would still be beautiful to 
me. You don’t mean I am beautiful like that, do 
you, mama dear?” 

“No,” she said sweetly. 

‘ ‘ But really and truly beautiful, like those princes 
you have read about, and like the splendid flowers? 
God must have made me beautiful because he made 
me lame and blind. He always does that, does n’t 
he? Gives one something for what he takes away 
from one— often something better. You have told 
me SO; and all the lame little princes are beautiful 
—always?” 

“Yes; like that— like all of that,” pleaded his 
mother, hastily. 

“Go on, now, mama, and tell me about myself. 


14 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


You need n’t be afraid. I shall know if you make 
me too beautiful.” 

He said it gaily, then cuddled happily against her, 
and waited. 

But none of it had been so difficult as this, noth- 
ing had been so avoided. 

“Oh, Jack, will not some other time do? I am 
very, very tired, ’ ’ she begged piteously. 

“Too tired, mama dear, to tell me a few tiny 
things, like the color of my hair and eyes? Then, 
if you are still tired, you shall lie right down here 
beside me and sleep. I sha’n’t say a word, scarcely 
breathe, mama ; only keep my arms about you, very 
close— so.” It was a fervid embrace. 

She looked long into the thin elf-face before her; 
then, as she spoke, she closed her eyes. She wished 
to know, as she spoke, only the tender pressure of 
the small arms. 

“You have long and splendid locks, my darling, 
in which the very sun at times seems hidden, only 
to flash out joyously now and then in a curl as you 
turn. Oh—” 

She was tired, it seemed, in her very soul ; and her 
invention flagged and rebelled at this as at nothing 
before. The last was a mutinous note, caught away 
in time. 

“Go on, mama,” he urged; “that is fine. It is 
like the Prince of— of Something. You read about 
him yesterday. Only I am more splendid than he ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He shook his serpent-locks that she might see the 
sun-flash. 

“There— like that! Did it flash— and flash?” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


16 


whispered his mother, with stiU closed 
eyes, kissing the dank hair. 

‘‘The great yellow sun which makes the day, the 
going away of which makes the night— like that? 
So splendid?^’ 

“Yes.’^ 

“The huge, golden ball?^^ He was quoting her. 

“Yes.’^ 

“ Go on, mama dear. What is the color ? Yellow, 
like the sun, too ? I wish it to be yellow. I like yel- 
low best, and most of the princes have yellow hair. ’ ^ 

“Yes; yellow, and shining, and silken. Nothing 
could be more lovely.’’ 

“And my eyes— are they yellow, too?” 

“Ah, no,”— she could smile a little,— “they are 
blue, like the sky in which the sun shines, and large 
and round ; and when you wake they open like morn- 
ing-glories dainty with dew. Oh, then, my bonnie 
one, it seems impossible that you cannot see ! Now 
—now! Your eyes are looking straight into mine. 
Oh, some day you must see— you shall! 

There was no pretence in this cry from her soul. 

“Of course,” said Jack, confidently. 

“Yes.” 

But she whispered it, and breathed rapidly for a 
moment. 

“Go on, mama dear. Of course my eyes are blue. 
Only I forgot. All the princes’ are. 'What next?” 

“Yes— and— oh— there are long, curling lashes 
that lie on your cheeks as you sleep— oh, my God! 
my God ! my God 1 ’ ’ 

Endurance failed. She sobbed. 

Jack put his thin hand up to her eyes. 


16 


THE PEINCE OP HiLUSION 


‘‘Mama darling,” he whispered, “tell the rest to- 
morrow. I forgot that you were tired. I make you 
talk so much. Oh, it seems to me that 1 should 
never, never, never get tired talking about things 
that are beautiful ! About you ! But it can’t be the 
same with one who can see them. But to-morrow, 
mama dear.” 

“ No ! ” she cried out savagely. ‘ ‘ Now ! ’ ’ 

To herself she said: “Now— to-day— this one time, 
he shall be as I would have him, as I prayed he 
might be!” “Jack, sweetheart, oh, your face is so 
fair that it seems vision-like — the kind one dreams 
of, yearns— hungers for!” she went on. “There is 
a pink spot on each cheek that is more beautiful 
than any of the flowers or colors I have told you of, 
because it lives— it lives! Here and here, where I 
touch. And it comes and goes, it glows and pales, 
as they cannot. Because it lives! Do you hear?— 
lives! Sometimes it is but a faint pink; and then, 
when you are very happy— ’ ’ 

“I am always happy, mama dear.” 

He almost shouted it. 

“Yes, yes, yes! Oh, thank God! Thank the God 
in heaven, the God of children ! But sometimes you 
are happier than at others, sometimes you are very 
happy. Then it is deep crimson. And your dear 
mouth, oh. Jack, my beautiful one, is like a rosebud, 
and more sweet— more sweet to kiss. Oh, your— 
mouth—” 

She put her lips avidly upon his, and kept them 
there. Jack’s arms went about her neck. 

“Mama darling, it is better than seeing— to hear 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


17 


you tell it. Mama, do you know, sometimes I ’m 
almost glad I ’m blind, when you are like this— so- 
so— What shall I call it ? ” 

Loving.’^ 

^‘It is more than that— 

‘‘Yes! More!^^ 

Suddenly, resistlessly, she sobbed. 

“But why do you cry, mama dear?^^ 

“Oh, don’t you know. Jack, my sweet one?” 

“N-no,” said Jack, uncertainly. “I guess I don’t 
know much about crying, do I ? I have never cried, 
have I, mama? I don’t remember it if I have. 
Maybe I don’t know how.” 

“God grant that you may never learn! You 
never shall if I can prevent it. Oh, you shall be the 
happiest being that ever lived on the earth! You 
shall know no sorrow, regret, or care— only joy, joy, 
joy! You shall dream— dream to the end! Thus 
shall I atone—” 

Then she remembered, and explained dully: 

“Jack dear, we cry when we are glad as well as 
when we are sorry— we women.” 

“Only women do that?” 

“Only women.” 

“And must they, mama dear?” 

“Yes, Jack; sometimes— they— must.” Within 
she said, “Else they would die!” 

“It seems a little— silly, mama, to cry when you 
are glad. But I like to do everything you do.” 

“You shall never shed a tear. Jack my own!” 

“Thank you, mama. I would rather not if I 
don’t have to. What ’s the use?” 


2 


18 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


She laughed sadly. 

“Yes, what ’s the use!’’ She saw that he caught 
upon her tone, and hastened him away from it. 
“There is a piquant little nose which we can both 
find.” 

Their hands met on the way to it, and they 
laughed together very joyously. 

“And two pretty ears through which the light 
shines pink. See?” She put his hands with hers 
upon them, and again they laughed— that he should 
“see”! 

“And here, where we both touch again, comes a 
dimple every time you smile; and you know how 
often that is, God bless you ! ’ ’ 

“Yes.” Jack laughed riotously. 

“And here, where we touch once more, is an- 
other.” 

“What is a dimple?” 

“A dear little pink hollow in the cheek— just a 
shadow ! ’ ’ 

“I can’t feel them,” complained Jack, trying. 

“You must smile, not laugh. They will come for 
a smile, not for a laugh.” 

Jack tried desperately to smile, and not to laugh. 

‘ ‘ Oh-h-h ! That ’s the first time I knew that you 
can’t smile when you want to, and that you ’ve got 
to laugh when you don’t want to.” But he stopped 
searching for the dimples, and became almost solemn. 

“Why, mama darling, none of the things you 
have told me about is as beautiful as your own 
little boy.” 

Something battled and shouted in her heart. She 
had wished that. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


19 


‘‘No,’’ she whispered, with a great throb. 

“And some day I shall see myself— oh!” 

His mother suddenly gasped and got to her feet. 
The boy felt her mood change. 

“Mama, you said so,” he chided softly. 

She sat down again and took his hands. 

“ Yes ; but you must be patient. It may be a long 
while yet.” 

“Oh, I don’t care how long it is, only so that it 
is certain. I am more than nine now. Will it be 
before I am ten, do you think ? ’ ’ 

“It — may — be,” she faltered. 

His spirits grew buoyant. 

“7 think it will be. I have the feeling that I 
shall see soon, I saw the music the other day when 
the musicians played at the palace gate. Yes; and, 
mama dear, the first thing I shall do will be to look 
at myself in the wonderful mirror of which you 
have told me, where one can see one’s self just as 
you see me now. That must be splendid. Some- 
times, mama, I almost can’t wait.” 

“You must be very patient,” she said. 

“Yes; but, oh, I think and think and think of 
that first moment! But then, after a long time, I 
make myself stop thinking so that I don’t get impa- 
tient. I ’d like to get impatient. But that is what 
you wish— for me not to get impatient, is n’t it, 
mama ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said his mother. 

“But, mama, it will be splendid— oh, glorious, 
won’t it? I may think about its being glorious, 
may n’t I?” 

“Yes.” 


20 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘Glorious! And then, mama darling— forgive 
me! Oh, how selfish I am! I shall not look in the 
mirror first. I shall look at you first— you, mama 
darling ! ’ ’ 

She put her trembling hand on his mouth. There 
were no words within for him. 

He laughed splendidlj^, and drew the hand caress- 
ingly over his cheeks, one after the other. Finally 
he kissed it. 

“But, mama, that will be glorious— the moment 
when I shall see you!^’ 

“Yes, Jack. But you must not forget— we do 
not all see— alike— ’’ 

The little boy stopped her mouth as she had done 
his ; and she was glad. 

“No huts, please, mama, not one! That moment 
will be too splendid for huts.” 

“Then there shall be none, my boy.’’ 


IV 

HERSELF 

“And, mama,” again he almost shouted, “we are 
not done with the funny things, not half done, not 
quarter ! I just now thought of another. The glo- 
rious moment made me think of it. Oh, it is the 
funniest of all! Mama, you have never told me 
about yourself— not a word! Why, mama! What 
can you have been thinking of all the time? A 


THE PEINCE OF H^LUSION 


21 


little boy not to know anything- about the sweetest 
mother ! ’ ’ 

‘‘Ah, that is easier.’^ 

Jack unerringly caught her tone. 

“Why, mama?” he asked quickly. 

Her answer was not at once ready. Often her 
wits, trained only in dissimulation, could not keep 
pace with his seeking, in the darkness, only the truth. 

“You are not afraid, mama?” 

Still she was not ready. 

“I know you are beautiful. This and this and 
this and this are all beautiful.” He touched suc- 
cessively her hands and hair and face. 

“Yes,” she said then, comfortingly; “I suppose I 
too am beautiful.” 

“Then why are you afraid, mama dear, to tell 
me?” 

“I am not afraid,” she stumbled on, “but, oh— 
perhaps— embarrassed. You must know that one 
cannot see one’s own beauty, even with the wonder- 
ful mirror, as one can see another’s. I shall have to 
wait till you can see me Avith your own dear eyes to 
know whether or not I am beautiful.” 

“Oh, won’t that be splendid! I would a thou- 
sand times rather see you than myself, mama, my 
sweet mama! No, no, no! I shall not look in the 
wonderful mirror first, but at you— right up into 
your face like this! And— oh, yes— I ’ll tell you 
everything— every little thing; and I will tell you 
true, just as you do me—” 

She interrupted him with a breathless sense of 
guilt. 


22 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘Yes, yes. Shall I tell you— you wanted to know 
—about my— myself ? ” 

“Yes,” said Jack; “and excuse me for not let- 
ting you.” 

The mother sighed out her relief. 

“Well, then, my eyes also are blue, or rather 
violet, because I am so much older, I suppose; and 
my hair too is yellow, and falls in waves, and my 
lashes are long, and— and I used to have dimples— 
before— oh !— and— that ’s all, is n’t it?” 

She had spun it off at an almost maudlin gallop. 

“Why, no, mama dear. You have missed the best 
of all— your mouth. Is it red, like mine? I know 
it is sweet to kiss.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Jack darling. One cannot 
tell about one ’s self as about another. One who can 
see—” 

Reaction had come, and she was suffering now. 

“But, mama, did n’t some one tell you, just as 
you tell me? I wish so, mama. Not the mirror 
— some person. A voice. I wish some one to 
have been as sweet to you as you are to me. And 
there must have been some one who could n’t 
help it.” 

She suddenly swept the strange boy into her arms, 
and crushed him there with the passion he liked. 
With her mouth at his neck she whispered tempestu- 
ously : 

“Yes! Yes; some one— did.” 

“Oh, I just knew it! Who was it, mama?” Jack 
whispered back eagerly. 

“Oh, darling, darling, don’t ask, please ! I did n’t 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


23 


mean to tell you. I must n’t tell you ! Yet I must, 
if you ask. But you won’t ask, will you?” 

‘‘We were to have no secrets, mama dear, from 
each other. You know everything which comes into 
my heart,” Jack said sadly. “I like to tell you. 
And you are happy and unhappy all together! 
When I am that way, I can’t help telling you.” 

This loving chiding sank deep into her soul. She 
was silent another moment, her breath throbbing 
upon his neck, trying to decide. She wanted to 
tell him. 

“Mama, was it a little boy?” 

A small hand touched her face, timorously. 

“No,” she whispered fiercely, in the new joy of 
it— “no; it was a man. A man tall and splendid.” 

“Oh, that is very beautiful,” said Jack. “And 
was it long ago, mama dear ? ’ ’ 

“Long, long ago. Jack.” 

“How long?” 

“Nearly ten years!” 

“Did he— love you, mama?” 

“Love me! Oh!” 

“As much as you do me?” 

“More.” 

Jack was silent a moment. 

“Not more, mama, please,” he pleaded then. 

She laughed hysterically, and caught him closer. 

“No, not more. No. No one couid love me more. 
But, oh ! he was so great and splendid that it seemed 
more. It was as if he had all the love in the world— 
in heaven— to give. And he— gave it— to me.'” 

Again the boy was silent for a space. He had 


24 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


never seen her in such superb emotion as this. It 
fascinated him, while yet there was a certain diffi- 
cult terror in it. All the time his voice had been 
growing softer, more intimate, as he questioned her, 
as if his soul, always greater than he, not his mind, 
quite understood. 

‘‘Mama, did he kiss your lips— the splendid one?’^ 

“Yes,” she confessed. 

“As I do?” 

She plunged her face deeper, and J ack understood 
that she wished not to answer this, and forbore. 

“Mama— was it— my father?” 

She was still silent. But the boy could feel her 
sobbing within. 

“Mama, does n’t it make you happier to tell 
things ? It does me. I must. If I don ’t, they slip 
right out of me, anyhow. But afterward I ’m al- 
ways glad.” 

“Yes, yes, yes ! Oh, I too must tell things ! They 
break the heart, they kill, unless one does. And I 
have no one but you ! ’ ’ 

“Then tell me— tell me all about the splendid one. 
It will make you happier to tell. And afterward 
I shall kiss you so that you may know it has made 
me happier.” 

“Jack— it make you happier? Are you 
sure?” 

“Oh, sure!^’ He laughed a little. “I know it 
was my father. And I am glad he was the splendid 
one. Some day I shall be just like him.” 

“Yes. But-” 

Again he could feel her sobbing. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


25 


he urged sweetly, “you ought to have 
told me long ago— then you would have been hap- 
pier. But how could I know that you were unhappy 
—when you did n’t tell?” 

“One night he— went away— and— never came— 
back!” She hurried it out as if she might fail. 

“Never came back!” Jack was silent then. His 
mother looked at him. 

“Jack, it has made you sad! Oh, if it has—” 

He answered with a strange deliberation: 

‘ ‘ It has made me love you a million times more, all 
in a moment. ’ ’ 

“Thank you. Jack,” she whispered. 

“I do not see how he could stay away from you, 
mama darling. I don’t see how any one could. 
You! Mama, was I born then?” 

“N— no,” she faltered. 

“I am sorry for that. Was he angry, mama?” 

“I cannot tell you more to-day. Jack— please— 
please ! ’ ’ She begged it in whispers. 

“Mama, your little boy only wants to help you; 
and your voice is dreadful as you say it.” He 
found her mouth and kissed it. She closed her eyes. 
Both were quiet for a little. 

“Mama darling,” Jack asked then, “have you his 
photograph ? ’ ’ 

“Yes— on my bureau— by the mirror.” 

“And shall I see it when my sight comes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Mama, you said he loved you; but did you love 
/tm— the splendid one?” 

“Did I love him? Jack— I— I worshiped him!” 


26 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘'Oh Jack clicked his teeth together— “how 
could he get angry and go away from you if he was 
splendid ! ’ ^ 

“You will never get angry and go away from me, 
no matter what I may do T ’ 

“ir^ That and Jack’s lips gave her sufficient 
answer. 

“God bless you, my little boy!” 

“Mama, had he blue eyes and yellow hair, like 
us?” 

“Yes.” 

“But, mama darling, why did n’t he come back? 
Oh, I should have come back, if for just one minute, 
and put my arms around you and kissed you many, 
many times, and told you I was sorry. That ’s what 
I would have done if I had been so horrid to you. 
And then perhaps you ’d have let me stay.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, J ack, you hurt me 1 He was not horrid. It 
was I.” 

“ You !” Nothing could have been added to Jack’s 
wondrous inflection to make the one word more im- 
pressive. 

“I,” she repeated miserably. 

“Then, mama,”— Jack’s voice took on an inde- 
scribable maturity and nobility,— “you must ask 
him to come back. It is a long time ; but you must. 
And I know he will come. Oh, perhaps he has been 
waiting all the time! Mama, ask him now to come 
back to you— and to me. Tell him about me. Per- 
haps he does not know—” 

She stopped him like an animal he had driven to 
bay, panting, reckless, defiant. 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


27 


‘‘Jack,’’— she hurled it at him in a sudden whis- 
per,— “he is— dead!” She caught at the word, but 
it w£ts too late. 

‘ ‘ Dead, ’ ’ repeated the little boy, awed by her man- 
ner, not by the word. “Death— the dreadful 
thing ? ’ ’ 

She hurried him to something else. 

“The photograph is in his uniform, just as he 
marched away. Oh, oh, oh. Jack, there is a song 
they used to sing then— oh, so long, long ago 1- 

‘‘ They marched away. 

So gallant and gay. 

It was like that. Only he was not gay. Jack dear. 
We had quarreled. I thought I hated him. I was 
very wicked and unkind. I told him never to speak 
to me again. I said, ‘Go!’ in that voice— do you 
hear? ‘Go.'”’ 

Her dramatizing had carried him away from that 
to this— alas ! not without its peril, also. 

“I never heard your voice like that,” said Jack, 
coming closer, with a shiver of terror. “It must 
have been dreadful to hear you speak like that. It 
makes me sorry for him. And all the time, mama 
dear, you did n’t hate him; you loved him?” 

“I loved him, but I said I hated him. I thought 
he knew, and would come back. But I had hurt his 
heart too badly.” 

“And yours was hurt, too, mama?” 

“Yes; more than his— more— more— more.” 

“Where did he go, mama?” 


28 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘Oh, to something you have never heard of— 
war. ’ ’ 

Since he knew the rest, this did not seem perilous. 

“Mama, what is war?” 

“It is fighting. Jack, by many men— thousands of 
men— at one time. They have guns and cannons 
and swords and bayonets, all things made to kill. 
And they kill one another— kill ! ” She spoke it 
with all the sudden hate she had for it ; and then, at 
the enlightenment in Jack’s face, she repented. 

“And that ’s why he never came back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Because to kill brings death, does n’t it, mama?” 

“Yes. Let us sing a little now.” She did so 
hastily. 

“ Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming. 

Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer.” 

But after one verse she stopped, and there was 
silence. For Jack was not listening to her music, 
though it never quavered from her lips so long- 
ingly. 

“I knew,” Jack mused,— and this was the result 
of his thinking, — “that he could n’t come back, or 
else he would. Yes — I know he would.” 

More thought. And then: 

“And you never-never saw him again, mama 
dear?” 

“I did see him— once more. And oh. Jack, I 
would tell you if I were sure it would not hurt you. 
I want to tell some one.” 

“Tell me, mama dear. It will not hurt me. It 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


29 


is all beautiful because it is all about you— all your 
life. Do not be afraid. Tell me.’’ 

She believed him. And she was desperate for his 
comfort. Yet she hesitated. 

‘‘He was killed, was n’t he, mama dear?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he was quite still and could n’t speak to 
you? See what a lot I know!” 

“Yes.” 

But the silence embarrassed him. 

“That ’s all I have guessed so far about death, 
mama,” he confessed. 

“There was a bullet-hole here— where I put my 
finger. A bullet is a small pointed thing made of 
metal and thrown very swiftly out of a long tube 
called a gun; and if it strikes one he is killed or 
desperately wounded. It had struck him here — just 
above his eye. And it was so sudden that his lips 
still looked as though he were giving a command. 
He was an officer then. And— Jack— oh. Jack! — 
around his neck was a little blue ribbon. I took it 
out. It had on it— a ring— which he had given me 
— and which I had given back to him— when— when 
he went away. This is it. Yes, feel it. Just the 
little hoop of gold— the yellow metal we have talked 
about. ’ ’ 

Jack for the first time took it off and then put 
it with a strange solemnity back upon her finger. 

“And now you wear it again, mama!” 

“Now— I— wear— it— again. ’ ’ 

“Dear mama— take it back— from me!” 

“From you!” she whispered. 


30 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘Dear, dear mama! Mama, you said that death 
was glorious—” 

“That men called it glorious— when one dies for 
one’s country, or for some vast and human cause; 
yes, I said that men called it glorious. But, oh, 
what do they know of women — of mothers — of 
wives!” The last word came with passionate cu- 
pidity. 

“Or of little boys.” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, but, mama darling, I am thinking only of 
him— the splendid one— and not of countries and 
causes. How can they call it glorious to kill one 
so beautiful? And then to kill thousands so splen- 
did! Mama, it canH be glorious to kill anything 
that is beautiful, splendid, no matter what for— not 
even a little flower ! ’ ’ 

“No. Men who have been in battle tell only of 
the horror and terror of it.” 

“Mama, where do they flght?” 

“Out in the flelds, by the rivers, on the moun- 
tains. ’ ’ 

“ Where there are flowers?” 

“Yes.” 

He put his arms about her. 

“Mama darling, it is not glorious.” 

“No.” 

“I should not care for the countries or the causes, 
but only for those who have to suffer for ever and 
ever, as you must, mama dear.” 

“Ah, Jack, I am afraid that is all I or any woman 
thinks of when our loved ones go to war.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


31 


After that you loved him more and more — be- 
cause you had hurt his heart— did n’t you, mama?” 
He whispered it, and touched her caressingly. 

‘‘Sometimes I used to think that he was glad to 
die— because I had hurt him. But I always loved 
him more and more, and I always shall.” She 
flung back her head royally, and said within : 

‘ ‘ Oh, I have suffered enough, God, to be permitted 
this— this to my little boy— /tis— little boy!” 

Jack came out of his somberness, presently, to 
say with a rapturous embrace : 

“I ’m glad I ’m like him, mama. And when I 
grow up you shall have him all back. And, mama, ’ ’ 
he cooed, “he will never go away— never, never!” 

“No.” 

“And even if you should get angry you will not 
be so angry that you will let me go away and be 
killed?” 

“No.” 

“I should be willing to die,” mused the boy, “if 
it would make you happier.” 

“Jack, oh. Jack, be still! You accuse me. I let 
him be killed who was only kind and loving to 
me—” 

“No, mama dear. I only wanted you to know 
that death is not as dreadful to me as it is to you. 
It is just like sleep, is n’t it? When one dreams 
pleasant things. No, I should n’t think it glorious 
to die for the countries or the causes, but for you— ” 

“Glorious to go away and leave me the loneliness 
—oh, the loneliness! That is it! It is that which 
makes it dreadful! Never to look into his eyes, 


32 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


never to touch his hand, never to hear his voice— 
oh, it is the loneliness— the vast— vast loneliness!” 

^‘Mama,” asked the little boy, “do you think me 
brave ? ’ ^ 

“Very.” 

“Do you remember the fire, when everything 
burned up— every little thing? Everything but you 
and me? And how I was n’t one bit frightened, 
but waited for you to carry me out in your arms? 
Do you remember how you kept calling to me: 
‘Jack! Jack! Jack! Don’t be afraid ! I ’m com- 
ing! I ’m on the third — fourth — last landing!’ ” 

‘ ‘ And how you answered that you were not afraid 
and were waiting?” 

“Mama, you were brave, too.” 

Suddenly she understood his strangeness. 

“Jack! You are comforting me!” she cried. 

“Yes,” he smiled. “Don’t you like it?” 

“But you do think it dreadful— death?” 

“Yes. At first it seemed almost beautiful, to die 
for one like you. But when you said that about 
loneliness— oh, yesl—''* 

“Jack, what are you thinking of?” 

“I should be lonely too— away from you.” 

“Oh, Jack, be still!” 

“Mama dear, maybe he, the splendid one, thought 
it glorious to die for— Then he put his small 
hand on her mouth, as they each did when they 
wished a subject dismissed, and they were quiet. 
And when the little boy’s face lighted up again 
it was with the splendor of something beautiful 
within. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


33 


‘‘Mama darling, your heart still hurts, I know/^ 

“Yes, Jack; still hurts. 

“But— it ’s better since— since— I came— is n^t 
itr^ 

“Yes, yes, yes, darling!’^ 

“After a while it sha’n’t hurt at all. For I shall 
look like the tall one; and I shall be like him, as 
strong and brave and good and sweet. Perhaps you 
will think too I am like him— maybe, sometimes, you 
will forget and think I am he. Would n’t that be 
fine, mama dear?” 

She said it would. 

“Will you try, sometimes, mama?” 

She said she would. 

“And we will talk of the dreadful things— all of 
them— for you have said I am brave; and there shall 
be no more hurt in them, for it takes the hurt out of 
them— the talks— and you shall be awfully, awfully 
happy! And I—” 

Jack’s eyes began to close drowsily. 

“Sing, mama,” he said. “At the end of things 
we always sing, you know.” 

When she got to 

** Ever I ’m dreaming fondly of thee,” 

Jack woke a little and said: 

“You are, mama darling, always, are n’t you? I 
—used n’t to— know who. But now— I know. And 
I ’m so glad— ” 

His small hand had gone up to her eyes and found 
the tears. He woke a little more. But sleep had 


3 


34 


THE PRINCE OP ILLUSION 


come and would not be denied. From her eyes his 
hands dropped of their own weight to her hands. 
He felt the ring. 

“Mama,” he asked from out the shadows whither 
he was drifting, “why did he give it to you— then— 
you give it back to him— then you— take it again— 
when he was— dead?” 

She hesitated. He forgot. 

“And, mama darling, why”— the question escaped 
him, but he filched it sleepily back— “But, mama, 
what were you— so angry— at my father— for— so— 
very— very angry— when he went to— be— killed?” 

Again she hesitated. 

“Mama-” 

“You,” she whispered then. 

“Me-?” 

But then Jack slept. 


V 

THE BUTTON ON THE PRINCESS COAT 

Jack’s wants were modest enough. His mother 
managed to keep them so. But what she permitted 
him to need he ordered royally. 

“This morning I shall have nothing but fruit for 
my breakfast— oranges, bananas, pomegranates—” 
“An orange and a banana, sweetheart,” she ad- 
monished. “Little boys who have plenty must al- 
ways remember those who have not, even if they are 
princes, because they are princes.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


36 


“Yes, mama dear,’’ agreed Jack at once, caressing 
her hands. “I forget sometimes that all little boys 
do not have everything they want, and plenty of 
servants to bring it. Even some of the princes in 
the stories don’t. Yes; an orange and a banana, 
please, mama dear. ’ ’ 

She rose from the side of the bed where she habit- 
ually sat. 

• He stopped her. 

“Don’t go, mama. Let Donald bring it.” 

“Yes; but I must order it, and then receive it of 
Donald. Do not forget that he never sees you 
closely, that no one but Daniel and me in all the 
world knows of your blindness. ’ ’ 

“Forgive me, mama. And go, but come again 
quickly. ’ ’ 

She went to a closet in the outer room, and opened 
the door so that he should hear it. Then she called, 
as if down a stairway : 

“Donald! Donald!” 

She waited a moment. 

“Yes,” she said; “you will bring a simple break- 
fast for the prince. An orange and a banana will 
be sufficient. And hasten.” 

She softly procured a plate and the fruit from a 
shelf in the closet, waited a moment, and then said : 

“Thank you, Donald; you are very good.” 

She closed the door of the closet so that, again, he 
might hear it, and took the fruit to the little boy. 

“I like Donald, mama,” he said superbly. “He 
always answers at once, and so very quietly. And 
he always brings exactly what one asks for. I shall 


36 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


promote him. Only once he did n’t. Oh, do you 
remember? We had nothing to eat for two whole 
days. Were n ’t we hungry ! And was n ’t it strange 
that even a prince had to starve because the soft 
white stuff called snow would n’t let any one go 
out! And was n’t it jolly, the way we laughed and 
cried together, and consoled each other ? You cried, 
1 laughed ! That ’s the time I found out what snow 
was. I don’t understand yet how such soft stuff 
could be so strong. But even that, you said, was 
beautiful, mama dear. ’ ’ 

“Very beautiful, sweetheart.” 

“You went out and saw it— miles and miles of 
nothing but white ! I only had a little in my hands. 
But I shall see it some day, too. And there shall be 
bells on my horses. Mama dear, don’t you want to 
go out often that way— alone? Daniel stayed that 
time. But Celeste could stay any time.” 

“No; mama is never quite so happy anywhere as 
with her little boy. ’ ’ 

“And do you never get tired of just me?” 

“Never!” 

“Celeste could read to me, maybe?” 

“You would not like her voice.” 

“Mama, I ’m so glad that you don’t get tired of 
me. I never, never get tired of you.^^ 

Again the mother understood his strangeness. 

“Jack,” she said, “you are the sweetest boy a 
mother ever had ! ’ ’ 

“Thank you, mama. Oh, does the sun shine? 
Shall we go out in the carriage to-day ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


37 


‘‘Then, mama, will you please tell Celeste that I 
shall want to wear my new blouse, the one that is 
to have ruffles down the front?’’ 

The mother went again to the outer room, and 
again to the closet door, and she called the girl who 
in that Palace of Fancy had charge of the prince’s 
wardrobe. Then she closed the door, took the new 
blouse from her sewing-machine, thanked Celeste for 
its beauty, and bore it to the other room. 

“Oh, that is fine!” cried Jack, feeling the dainty 
ruffles lovingly. “Oh, and don’t forget, mama, 
please, to have her sew the button on my long coat. 
I don ’t like to go without it. ’ ’ 

“No,” said his mother. 

She opened the closet door. 

“Celeste,” she called softly, “do not forget the 
button on Prince Jack’s driving-coat. Oh! Al- 
ready? Why, thank you— thank you very much!” 

She took the coat in to the little boy with the 
button sewn on. 

“/s n’t she quick, mama!” 

“She is a very good servant,” said his mother. 

Jack counted the buttons. 

“She shall be promoted, too. When I ’m a man 
I ’m to see them all, and they are to take their orders 
from me, are they not, mama?— just as it is in all 
your stories ? ’ ’ 

“Certainly, dear.” 

And then Celeste brought his porridge, while it 
heated over the lamp in the other room. 

And while it was heating his mother held for his 
sake a long conversation with Celeste and the other 


38 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


denizens of the purlieus beyond the closet door— 
God knows where — how — he fancied them! She re- 
peated again, as almost every day she did, Jack’s 
messages to them— very kind and loving always, but 
imperially, medievally autocratic, as he thought the 
communications from the young lord of the palace to 
its servitors should be. And to him she gave back 
their humble thanks and salutations. And in these 
Prince Jack was very happy. 

^‘Tell them, mama, that they need not be afraid 
of me. For the moment I get my sight each one 
of them shall have a new suit of clothes, and some 
money in a purse, and, perhaps, to those who have 
been very good, a ring.” 

For this, you must know, was all quite in the way 
of the stories. 

All this— save that he was blind— she repeated to 
the closet. 

‘‘And what do they say, mama?” 

For you must also understand that he never heard 
more than one side of these conversations. Once or 
twice she had tried to speak for the servants also. 
And Dan had done the same. But it was too per- 
ilous. And now he had become used to hearing only 
her, and was satisfied. For did she not always tell 
him true? 

“They give you their most humble service, and 
they hope that it will not be much longer till your 
highness will come to rule over them.” 

“Oh, that is fine, mama! I love every one of 
them! And are they all on one knee?” 

“Oh, yes.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


39 


“And looking straight this way?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“Shall I kiss my hand to them?” 

“Yes, dear. They will like that.” 

Jack scrambled to his knees and did this. And 
for a moment his face was full of color. 

‘ ‘ Did they see it ? ” 

‘ ‘ Every one of them. ’ ’ 

“I wish they ’d shout, just a little.” 

“No, sweetheart; I have taught them not to do 
that. We must not call attention to you yet. At 
this distance they cannot see that you are blind. 
But if it should be found out—” 

“’/S'/I/” Jack whispered; “I know. They might 
want another prince. But I hope they speak of me 
as ‘his highness’ among themselves?” 

“Certainly, certainly,” answered his mother. “I 
always require that.” 

“Daniel forgets sometimes. Once he called me 
‘Jack.’ ” 

“You must not be impatient with him, dear. He 
is very, very good.” 

“Of course! I shall promote /am.” Jack ca- 
ressed his mother’s hand in the curious little awk- 
ward fashion he had. “Here it is just ‘Jack and 
mama.’ ” He stopped, and reversed the phrase 
with princely gallantry, “ ‘Mama and Jack.’ And 
that is much sweeter than anything else could be. 
But we must have proper respect from the ser- 
vants. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said his mother, breathless with appre- 
hension now. 


40 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


Jack wrinkled his small brows in a moment’s 
thought— difficult thought, after which he said: 

“I think, mama, when my sight comes, and it is 
time for me to take my place in the palace, I shall 
have a regular home-coming. The servants shall all 
stand in two rows in the great hall, and I shall walk 
down between, and give them my hand to kiss— so, 
and so, and so.” He inadequately dramatized it. 
‘^And of course you shall be with me. I don’t quite 
know where it will be proper for you to walk, mama, 
dear.” 

She flung up her arms in sudden passion. 

^‘Behind you!” she said. 

‘Hs that the way?” 

“Yes.” 

Jack thought a moment. Then he said superbly: 

‘ ‘ I will not have it 1 There shall be a new way 1 ’ ’ 

“Where shall I walk?” asked his mother, eagerly. 

“You shall walk by my side,” said Jack. 

“No prince ever did that. It is not the custom. 
Princes are the creatures of custom.” 

“I will do it. No prince ever had so dear a 
mother. We will make a new custom. You shall 
take my arm— so.” He linked her arm within his 
own. “And you must point out the ones who have 
been most faithful. I shall want to say a word to 
them, especially if they are old.” 

“Yes,” said she. “Had I not better dismiss them 
now ? ’ ’ 

“Why,” laughed Jack, “you don’t mean to tell 
me that they have been there all this time? The 
dear things!” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


41 


‘‘Yes/’ she laughed back, “crowding the doorway. 
You may go,” she said to the closet door. 

“Mama,” said Jack, when she returned, “do you 
know that ever since you told me about the splendid 
one you have been happier ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, darling,” she confessed humbly; “I think 
I am.” 

“And I am too. We seem closer, mama dear.” 


VI 

DAN 

To keep up the illusions the good coachman down- 
stairs had learned to speak in a number of voices. 
And when Jack could not be kept from some little 
contact with his retinue, Dan Would be produced to 
his touch and hearing. But to the Palace of Fancy, 
the Prince of Illusion, he was the only retainer. 
Yet a more faithful one never lived in those splendid 
ages of which they so often read and talked. There 
were stories— which the little boy had never heard, 
was never to hear— of men who had suffered, of 
some who had died, for prince or princess. And 
Dan would have done this, was ready to do it at 
any moment. For once, when no one else would. 
Jack’s mother had put her life in peril for Dan’s. 
He had lived when he had been given over to die. 
She had made him do it. Perhaps it was because 
he had young blue eyes and yellow, tangled hair. 


42 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


After that he held the life she had saved as a pledge 
for her and hers. 

Dan was at once everything and every one, from 
the chamberlain to the opener of the great gates 
through which the prince's carriage passed in state 
every fine day. 


VII 

THE PASSING OP THE SHIPS 

A KNOCK upon the door always preceded Dan's 
“stage entrance," as he called it to himself. Then 
the mother would say, “Enter!" And one who, 
like Jack, could not see, but only hear, could fancy 
it no other than a royal permission. For sometimes 
he was told to hesitate a little. But, having entered, 
Dan would announce— so his lesson ran : 

“The carriage waits, your grace." 

And she would say again: 

“His highness will be ready in a moment." 

So it all happened on this day as it had happened 
hundreds of times before. 

Jack hurried into his new blouse, and then into the 
long, green driving-coat with the large horn but- 
tons, and on into a charming little cocked hat and 
his gloves. Then he said, as a young emperor might : 

“Daniel, I am ready." 

“Yes, your highness." 

And thus they went, the Prince of Illusion in the 
arms of the shabbiest coachman, with the shabbiest 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


43 


hat and the stumpiest whip and the most unshaven 
face ever seen. Thus they went, through the noi- 
some outer room, where the lamp always burned, 
down the rickety stairs, out of the narrow court, 
into the cobblestoned street to the shabbiest “hack’^ 
in all the city. 

Oh, the coachman understood his ‘ ‘ business ’ ^ ! And 
between them it was always the sovereign and the 
serf. The outer room might have been a corridor 
lined with exquisite marbles. The stairway might 
have been of bronze and alabaster. The court might 
have been an avenue lined with pilastered fagades. 
Beyond might have been a very Eden of trees and 
turf and flowers— the vast and vernal-sounding park 
— where they drove. 

But there was no park within many miles. 

And Jack was, indeed, the most gracious of sov- 
ereigns. For when, sometimes, Dan forgot his les- 
sons, Jack gladly excused him, quite as he did his 
mother, but always with a smiling hope that it would 
not occur again. Daniel was so much a serviteur 
intime. 

Where shall we go to-day, mama?” shouted Jack, 
feeling the splendor of the sun to his very heart. 
“Let us go where everything is joyous, and where 
there are people ! I want to see people, and I want 
them to see me.” 

“To-day, darling, we shall go to the most beauti- 
ful spot in the park, where there are flowing waters 
and happy children and flowers, and perhaps music. ^ ’ 

“Yes,” said the Prince of Illusion, clapping his 
hands. “And mind you tell me every flower we 


44 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


pass— every one. And what the children are like. 
I won’t have them — not one of them — more splendid 
than their prince.” Then he thought of something 
and turned to his mother. “Nor their mothers more 
beautiful than mine. See to it!” 

This last to Dan, who answered, “Certainly, your 
highness.” 

It was a short drive : first, carefully over the cob- 
bles, then, more bravely, into a street paved with 
asphalt. On this the children came and played be- 
cause it was so much better than anything within 
their houses. Eound and round the squalid block, 
on the smooth asphalt, they went— not a quarter of 
a mile in all. And all the way Jack could hear the 
joyous voices of the children. Presently, with a 
royal gesture, he made the coachman stop. 

“What are these children doing, mama?” he 
asked; for they were more glad than any he had 
yet heard. 

“Playing a game called hop-scotch. I used to 
play it when I was small. ’ ’ 

Jack at once caught an interest. “Oh! what is 
it like?” 

“You put a stone on the ground and hop and hop 
against it till you drive it through a maze of chalk- 
lines to its ‘home.’ ” 

Jack’s interest vanished. 

“Princes do not play hop-scotch, I think,” he said 
severely. 

“N-no,” faltered the mother. 

“Tell me about the children. Are they beau- 
tiful?” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


46 


It was hard to find beauty in the starved and 
pinched little faces ; but she did it. 

‘*Yes, they are all— beautiful.^’ 

She described them separately. One had black 
hair with glowing eyes, another yellow hair with 
sky-like eyes, and so on, using again all the rudi- 
ments of human beauty which she had been obliged 
to learn so diligently. 

* ‘ But none of them are better dressed than I T ^ 

She thanked God that she could truthfully an- 
swer no to this. 

^‘And it is still our own park?’’ 

‘‘Oh, yes,” she answered. 

‘ ‘ How many miles have we come ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I don ’t know, dearest ; but a good many. Only 
we have wound and wound about till we are really 
not far from the palace in a straight line.” 

“And, mama dear, describe the spot.” 

“It is a beautiful place on the bank of a river 
called— called— ” 

A sudden, overpowering weariness flooded her 
soul. It mutinied. 

“Peace— Peace !” she cried in smothered agony. 

“Oh, that is splendid, a splendid name— the River 
of Peace!” said Jack. 

Then he waited for her to go on. 

“And there are grass and flowers down to the 
very edge of it— yes, even the water is covered with 
them— huge white lilies. And little waves lap— lap 
on the beach. And that is a strip of yellow pebbles. ’ ’ 

“And the water is blue, mama dear? Always the 
water is blue in the stories.” 


46 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘As the sky itself, which is mirrored in it/^ 

“And I hear people — men and women and chil- 
dren, I think— at a distance?” 

“Yes; there are a great many. And they frolic 
joyously by the river bank.” 

“But they must not fall in!” 

“There is a strong wall to make it safe for them.” 

“The king built that, of course?” 

“Yes. And it is arranged so that they can just 
see over it— see the pleasure-boats go by with happy 
people on them. A lot of them, perhaps a hundred, 
are doing that just on your right.” 

A factory whistle shrilled deafeningly. 

“What is that?” demanded Jack, in royal dis- 
pleasure. 

There was a moment of embarrassment. 

“The whistle of the boat that is passing, your 
highness,” said the coachman, always ready with 
his wits when hers failed. 

“They must have softer whistles,” said Jack. 
“I shall see to it when—” 

The mother interrupted him lest he should go 
further. 

“And just beyond is a huge clump of roses.” 

“Oh, mama— roses! I want them.” 

“Pluck them off their stems so that they wither, 
sweetheart ? ’ ^ 

“No, no, no! But, mama dear, I may smell 
them ? ’ ’ 

“There is no road to them, and—” 

“Daniel shall carry me!” 

He was already struggling upward. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


47 


The coachman telegraphed some surety to the 
mother’s despair, and she trusted the situation to 
him. 

‘‘Yes, your highness,” he said, taking the prince 
in his arms. 

Dan had seen a solitary rose growing in a pot at 
an open window. Back from the window one might 
see a horror of squalor. But the rose stood there 
very beautiful. Dan carried the little boy to it and 
let him smell. It was ineffably fragrant. Then, at 
his asking,— very carefully, lest he might discover 
that there was but one, — he put the tiny fingers on 
the flower. Jack smelled the flower and then his 
fingers ecstatically. And for an instant he forgot 
that he was a prince. 

“Dan, are there more? Are there millions and 
millions of them?” Then he remembered. “Dan- 
iel, show me some more!” he commanded. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

Dan brought him in a little wavering circle back 
to the rose— and again and again. 

“Oh! is n’t this just jolly! Oh! take me to the 
wall and let me look out on the river. Why, I don’t 
mind being blind— not at all! This is as good as 
seeing.” Then he remembered again, and said in a 
majestic voice: “Take me to the wall and let me 
look out on the river, Daniel!” 

“Yes, your highness,” said Dan. The shabby 
coachman carried him the length of the block and let 
him look over the wall of the yard on the corner. 
Jack put his hands on the wooden coping and gazed 
outward. 


48 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


‘‘Where are the ships 

“There, and there, and there, said Dan. 

“Show me with my own hand.” 

The coachman took the tiny white hand and 
pointed with it. 

“There, and there, and there.” 

Jack’s forefinger outstretched itself, and he did 
with some accuracy what Dan had done. 

“There, and there, and there?” he asked, with a 
little uncertainty. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

What the small finger pointed at were an over- 
flowing ash-barrel, a heap of oyster-shells, a broken 
stove. Beyond was the mortar-flecked blank wall of 
the next house. 

The place on the corner was a saloon. And just 
then came the hum of quarreling voices from within. 
A street piano began to play faintly in the street 
beyond. 

“Is that the people on the ships?” asked Jack. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“And there are music and flags?” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“If the music were not so faint I could see it. 
I can see music. And have they noticed me? Do 
you suppose they know who I am? They can’t see 
that I ’m blind at this distance, can they? No. 
For mama says it is hard to tell that when one is 
quite close to me. Only the people are not to find 
out that I am blind, you know. They might want 
another prince. But it is perfectly safe here. Put 
me up a little higher. There. Now they must be 
able to see me. Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! ’ ’ 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


49 


He shouted it against the blank wall with all the 
strength of his puny lungs. 

‘‘Am I high enough? Can they see my velvet 
jacket— and the blouse?’’ He pulled the white ruf- 
fles out. “Aoii? they can, I ’m sure. Give me your 
handkerchief ! ’ ’ 

The good coachman did this. It sadly needed 
washing, but Jack waved it wildly and hurrahed 
again. 

“But they must have seen that,” he said in pique. 

“Certainly, your highness. They all do. I see 
them looking this way.” 

“Then why don’t they hurrah back to me?” 

At last the coachman understood. 

‘ ‘ They are doing it, your highness. ’ ’ 

“I can’t hear them.” 

The noise in the saloon had stopped. So had the 
piano. But the coachman had an inspiration. 

“They are so far away now that you can barely 
hear them. Ships go fast, and the river is wide.” 

“Oh!” said the prince, disappointed, but con- 
vinced. But Ban could not bear his disappointment. 

“Can’t you hear it— very, very faintly?” 

“Your highness,” suggested Jack. It was the 
second omission. 

“Your highness,” repeated the coachman, humbly. 

Jack listened with all his soul. Then his face 
lighted wondrously. 

“Yes, yes! I hear it! I do/” 

Such is the power of suggestion. 

“It is going away from us very fast. You can’t 
hear it now, your highness, I ’m sure, because I 
can’t.” 

1 


60 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


“No/’ said Jack, listening. “And it has been so 
beautiful ! ’ ’ 

But Dan was at the end of his invention. 

“They are out of sight now, your highness.” 

“Oh-h-h! Not one left— not one?” 

“The last one has just rounded the curve, your 
highness. ’ ’ 

“But we will stay. There will be more.” 

“I don’t think there will be any more, your 
highness. ’ ’ 

“Daniel, you are not to think for me,” said the 
prince, sharply. 

And Dan was reduced to the necessity of calling 
in the mother for succor. 

“Your highness’s mother—” 

It needed but that. “Oh, yes! Take me back 
to mama. Oh, I almost forgot, it was so splendid! 
We have been away from her very long. She will 
be lonely.” 

And now they might go wearily home. It was over 
for that day. He would chatter and not remember 
until he was back in his bed. It was always so. 

“Mama dear, I stood up and shouted, and they 
did n’t hear, and they did n’t see. So I got Dan- 
iel’s handkerchief and waved it and waved it, and 
hurrahed and hurrahed and hurrahed. Then they 
saw me and hurrahed back. Was n’t that fine? 
And they saw that I had on my velvet jacket and 
the long coat with the buttons, and I pulled out the 
ruffles of my new blouse so they would n’t miss that. 
I had to unbutton them both to do it. And Daniel 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


51 


thinks they knew that I was the prince. But it was 
quite too far for any one to see that I was blind. 
And we shall go to the same spot to-morrow, mama 
darling, sha’n’t we? For I never had such a splen- 
did time. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, if you wish, sweetheart.^’ 

“But, mama dear, what is a pleasure-ship?” 

She told him again about the building of them, 
the sailing of them, the beauty and splendor of them. 

‘ ‘ And, mama, I must have some ships. ’ ’ 

She told him he had— of course he had. And he 
answered : 

“Of course.” 

A prince without ships, indeed! Nearly all the 
princes in the stories had ships. 

“Maybe those we saw xvere mine?” 

“Maybe,” she said. 


VIII 

THE ONE RETAINER OF THE PRINCE 

One night when the little boy was sleeping she went 
out for their food while the coachman watched. 
They always did it thus. 

When she came back with her little basket the 
coachman himself was asleep. 

“Poor Dan!” she sighed, standing over him and 
smiling. “Did ever a woman have a truer friend?” 

At her voice, though it was but a breath, Dan 
woke. 


62 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


“Why did n’t you let me go?” he asked. For 
sometimes Dan bought the food. 

* ‘ I saw that you were tired, ’ ’ she said. 

“Yes, I was tired. But so were you. Oh, you 
are always tired! I ’d like to get tired for you! 
Let me ! ” 

She had put the things in the closet. Now she 
came and stood before him. Her “cloud” had 
fallen back, disclosing a pair of very beautiful and 
sorrowful eyes and a mass of disheveled hair. The 
semi-darkness showed her, but like some splendid, 
gleaming wraith. Dan had risen and was standing 
with his back against the wall. He was drinking in 
her beauty with all his senses. Once, when her back 
was turned, his arms had rebelliously .flung out 
toward her. And he himself was good to look upon, 
with all the poverty that clung about him. He had 
great, childlike eyes, and his beard grew in little 
blond patches. 

“Poor Dan!” she said again. 

She looked up at him. He looked down at her. 
Something within him heaved. He confined his 
arms behind him— pinned them to the wall with his 
body. 

**Let me get tired— for you! Let me die— for 
you! You know I ’d do it.” 

“Yes,” she said, taking the chair and bowing her 
head. 

Dan did not move from his place. He was afraid 
of himself in motion, afraid of his arms. 

me,” he said again. “It is all I ’m good 

for.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


63 


‘‘Ah, that would be hut a poor destiny. Why — 
don’t you go away— to something better— than— this 
—as you can— and ought?” she asked. 

“I don’t want to,” said Dan. 

There was a silence. 

“You don’t ask me why?” 

“No,” she answered. 

“You know?” 

She nodded. 

“Yes,” he said hopelessly, “there is nothing bet- 
ter than this— for me or any man. That is why I 
stay. And I shall always stay where you are— if it 
is in hell ! I shall try to do the same if it is in 
heaven. You are all I have, or ever shall have. 
And, whether you like it or not, I am all you have— 
thank God!” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

She shook a little, and her head went lower. 

“They flung me into this hole, an outcast, to die. 
You saved me. My God, to And one like you here I 
Oh, how I tried to account for you in all the fever ! 
I thought you an angel Anally. I know you are 
one now. God knows, you had better let me die. 
No!— or I would never have known any sweetness. 
This is all I ever had. It is enough. ‘Better’ 
things? What can be better than to be near you 
and help you? You cannot do without my help, 
thank God ! That is why I stay, and why I always 
will stay— that I may be where you are. Not to 
bother you. I ’m not such a brute as that, except 
on nights like this, when I ’m blue, and— tired- 
tired- tired ! That you will forgive again— you al- 


64 


THE PRmCE OF ILLUSION 


ways do, God bless you ! But simply to help you— 
do you hear?— to help you!'’ 

He bent over her as he said that. She did not 
look up. And then, presently, after a long silence, 
he went on very softly. And as he spoke he still 
bent worshipfully over her splendid head. He kept 
his arms behind him. 

‘‘And to see your hair”— he put his lips a mo- 
ment upon a straying lock; she did not know, and 
would not— “and your eyes and your lips, and to 
hear you call me ‘Dan, Dan,' sometimes, and to— 
God bless you!” 

Then he shuffled out and closed the door upon 
himself and all the brightness there wels or ever had 
been in the world for him. 

The next morning there was a soft knock on the 
door before Jack's time for rising. She knew it 
was Dan. It always happened thus. He was certain 
to find some delicate way of apologizing afterward. 

She could see, when she opened to him, that he 
had not slept. And he could see that she had been 
troubled. But nothing was said of these. Oh, the 
tact of the lowly is sometimes wondrous ! 

“Can you and Jack come with me to the real 
park to-day?” he asked, looking down. “There is 
to be music — fine music. You will like that. So 
will he. You know he fancies that he can see the 
music we hear. ' ' 

“But, Dan,” she faltered, between delight for 
herself and Jack and concern for him, “what about 
your employment ? This is your day on the street. ' ' 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


55 


that is all right,” answered Dan, evasively, 
still looking down. 

‘‘Dan,”— she raised his head with a finger under 
his chin, — “look at me. I understand, we both un- 
derstand. Don’t put that in peril. For if you do, 
if you lose that, then— why, then, you cannot— 
help me ! ” 

“Yes,” said Dan, swallowing hard on something 
in his throat. “What do you say to going at 
night ? ’ ’ 

“That will be fine,” she said. “The nights are 
all your own— and ours.” 

As he went she gave him the smile he had hoped 
for, which assured him that she did not hate him for 
what had happened in the night. Always he looked 
for this afterward. Always he got it. 


IX 

WHEN SIEGFRIED DIED 

So, that night, under the glare* of electric lights, by 
the side of a river, indeed. Jack heard his first or- 
chestral music. And that night something he had 
never known woke within him and pulsed and 
throbbed and burst. And that night he, indeed, saw 
the music. 

The great orchestra was throbbing the story of 
Siegfried’s betrayal and death when Jack gasped 
sobbingly and put his hands up to his eyes. His 


56 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


mother saw it. But he put his head under her arm, 
not like a prince, but like a simple little boy; and 
she was reassured, and put her arm tenderly about 
his shoulders. In this intrenchment he was very 
quiet and pale. He faced straight ahead, with his 
lids closed as if in obedience to some Spartan resolu- 
tion within, until she herself, enraptured with the 
music, was otf guard. Then he looked into her face, 
just once, for a long instant, and when she remem- 
bered him his head went again safely under her arm. 
He tried to get closer to her. She helped him. 

And all the evening, when the melody would win 
her for a space, he would look up at her. 

Once she saw, suddenly, and covered his eyes with 
a loving hand. 

“Don’t, darling,” she whispered. “You might 
strain them. And you must not do that. Perhaps 
the huge lights are not good for them. You must 
not try. It will come of itself, in God’s own time. 
But you must be patient— very patient till God sees 
fit to help us.” 

“Yes, mama darling,” said Jack, so softly that 
she wondered. 

“Oh, that is just my own little boy, and not the 
prince at all,” said his mother. 

“I would rather be— just— your little boy— to- 
night, mama, please.” 

“God bless you, my darling! And so you shall 
be. Oh, to-night I, too, like that best! But, Jack 
dear, you are tired. Come! Shall we go back to 
the palace?” 

He shrank from her a little as she said it. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


57 


‘‘Can’t we stay a while longer, mama dear? The 
music is so beautiful ! And it seems to call to me. ’ ’ 

“Oh, sweetheart! What fancies!” 

“Mama, I have heard it often. Only I did n’t 
know what it was. And it always calls. But to- 
night I knew.” 

“You have never heard it before, darling.” 

“Mama dear, I guess that is so. I have seen 
it.” 

“Oh, Jack! See music?” 

But she forbore then. 

That night, as she watched him in his sleep, he 
seemed more pinched and shrunken than before. 
And there was something piteous in the way he tore 
his eyes open now and then. Once he sobbed; it 
was the first time. But then, as if some emotion 
had been loosed, he slept. He had never before 
been like that. Always he slept well. 

And the next day, when they went out to drive, 
he was very quiet. He asked no questions and kept 
his gaze straight ahead. 

“Jack, darling,” his mother asked, “did n’t you 
like the music?” 

‘ ‘ Like the music ? Oh, mama ! ’ ’ 

He tucked his small head under her arm in that 
new fashion. 

‘ ‘ Then why are you so strange to-day ? ’ ’ 

“Mama dear, I am— only— thinking.” 

She determined that he should not think, and 
practised a specious gaiety. But it was difficult, for 
he had never been so sweet to her. 


58 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


Then, on another day, she said when she ought 
not, as mothers will: 

“Jack, my darling, don’t you love me any more?” 

And Jack answered almost as a man would, and 
with almost a man’s caresses. 

“With every little bit of my heart, mama darling! 
I never, never loved you so much. I did n’t think 
I could. God must have sent you straight from 
heaven to me— darling, darling mama!” 

And this, so splendid, almost made it right with 
her. 

“But, Jack, you are strange; you never ask any 
questions now; you never scold Daniel— so like a 
prince! You never want anything— only to put 
your dear head so sweetly under my arm. Jack, 
my darling, I am lonely— lonely for the other Jack, 
the prince ! My prince ! And you don ’t want me 
to be lonely— you said you did not. Oh, I must be 
doing something every day for my prince, or it is 
lonely. Jack, let us go to see the ships to-day?” 

This, if anything, would win him, she thought. 
But Jack hesitated, and then touched her beseech- 
ingly. 

“Oh, mama, do you wish it— very, very much? 
It is only two days since—” 

“Ah, you do not,” she said. “You have never 
taken the interest in them you did at first.” 

“Not to-day, mama dear, please. Perhaps— per- 
haps to-morrow.” 

He nestled his head more deeply. She closed her 
arm about him. 

“Is it so sweet. Jack?” she whispered. 


THE PRINCE OP ILLUSION 


69 


he whispered back, very happily. ^‘It is 
all I want to-day, mama dear— oh, forever!’^ 

“Jack dear, look-up at me and smile; be a boy, 
if you do not like to be a prince, to-day. Give me 
the other Jack, dear.” 

She lifted his chin, and he looked straightly, al- 
most solemnly, into her eyes. She closed out his 
own with her hand. 

“Jack, it seems as if you do see, as if you saw 
my soul!” 

“Yes-” 

“You do— see my soul?” 

“Yes; as I see the music— without knowing— ex- 
cept that it is beautiful.” 

“My prince, my boy, my mystery!” she breathed. 

After a while the little boy said quietly : 

‘ ^ I shall be your prince, mama dear ; you need not 
fear. I begin to understand. And I am brave, and 
I shall be your prince.” 

“Yes, of course, as soon as you get your sight.” 

“Yes, as soon—” 

But he suddenly seemed to droop upon her, and 
terror possessed her heart. 

“Jack!” she begged, “you are not going to be ill? 
Oh, you are brave! And you will not let yourself 
be ill. No ! Fight, my darling, fight whenever the 
illness comes. I will help you.” She closed her 
teeth savagely. “We have fought together for more 
than nine years. Think! Nine years! There are 
only a few more till you will— see!” She could 
just gasp it out. “Don’t abandon me now— don’t, 
Jack, my own! Jack, are you ill?” 


60 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


^^Why, no, mama dear!” He smiled his new, 
mature smile, and touched her hand as it lay in her 
lap. ‘‘And I am braver now than I have ever been, 
mama dear. Much braver than at the fire. You 
may be sure of that.” 

But she made him go out. She thought that best. 
He yielded, smiling. And she made the day very 
joyous for him, so that she could say presently : 

“Jack, I— I— was frightened— about the illness.” 
She laughed with a mechanical note, and hugged 
him. Jack took advantage of this to ask to go home. 

“Before we have seen the roses and the ships and 
the children and the river ? Before I have told you 
or you have asked a thing? Don’t you know that 
we are at that spot in the park by the river bank, 
where it is all so beautiful, and where the ships 
pass ? ” 

“Yes,” said Jack; “but, if you please, mama dear, 
I don ’t want the roses or the ships, or even the river, 
to-day, but only you. And, somehow, it is sweeter 
when I am in my bed, and you sitting on the 
side.” 

So they went home, and she tried piteously to be 
gay for him still, tried to recreate the old fashion 
of their life, which was gone. She said nothing, 
did nothing, that had not a smile in it for him. She 
went through all that business of the closet and 
Donald and Celeste, and the others in the purlieus, 
and made it bright with laughter for him. And 
sometimes Jack would smile his new smile, and 
caress her— that man’s caress which was so thrill- 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


61 


ingly sweet yet awful; and at the end she plunged 
her face in the pillows and sobbed in the outer room. 

When she came back the little boy said: 

‘‘Don’t be unhappy, mama.” 

“Why,”— she wrung a laugh,— “we have been 
very gay! How did you fancy that I was— un- 
happy?” 

He did not answer her. Instead he said : 

“Don’t be afraid, mama dear. Your prince will 
be as brave and strong and noble— do you hear, 
mama darling?— as the splendid one. Perhaps not 
quite like him— no ! But you will not care for that. 
•And you shall be as proud of him, and as glad— oh, 
as glad and proud as he is of you. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Jack, my own; I know that. I have always 
known it. But why do you talk so much of it now ? 
What is there about you that I cannot grasp— that 
parts us ? ” 

“There is nothing that parts us, or ever can, 
mama dear,” smiled little Jack, kissing her to silence. 


X 

WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID: WHAT THE 
MOTHER DID 

They drove every day now. But Jack’s eyes were 
always straight ahead, and always his head was 
tucked under her arm in that sweet new fashion. 
If one were even more vigilant than his mother— and 


62 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


how could one be that?— one might catch now and 
then a flash of terror in the eyes. After that, if it 
were there and were not an illusion, they would 
close for long whiles till peace came. Then, if she 
looked at him or spoke to him, they would open 
with the new smile in them— the smile which spoke 
more and more of patience, honor, devotion— in one 
word, princeliness. 

But he looked straight ahead. And when she 
would ask him if he were ill he would answer with 
his man’s smile: 

‘ ‘ 111, mama dear, when I am seeing the music ? ’ ’ 

Often she took him to hear the music — the very 
music they had heard that night, which he could 
see, but could not understand. This was the one 
thing for which he hungered. And though he still 
said it was beautiful, and more and more beautiful, 
he always listened with his eyes closed. 

And day by day he grew more tired. So that one 
day he said : 

‘‘Mama darling, I am tired to-day before we start. 
Let us not go out, but stay at home all the whole, 
long day. And you will talk to me, and sing, very 
softly, and I shall do nothing but listen. ’ ’ 

He laughed gleefully. 

“Yes, sweetheart,” she agreed. “But what shall 
it be? The things we have seen together? The 
river and the ships? The affairs of the palace? 
This beautiful apartment? What you are to do 
when you are a man and your sight has come and 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


63 


your leg is well— and you are like the splendid one ? 
Shall it be the home-coming, perhaps very near now ? 
What shall it be, my prince? Let us arrange a 
program. ’ ’ 

“You,” said Jack. 

“Me? We have exhausted me long ago.” 

He went on without heeding her words. 

“And the splendid one.” 

“And him,” she said huskily; “you know all 
about him. ’ ^ 

Again he did not heed. 

“And about the ring. Why he gave it to you, 
why you gave it back to him, why you wear it now, 
when he is dead, why you were so angry. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” she said, in a long while, whispering; 
“and I will ‘tell you true’— true!” 

And she did, except one small thing. 

And afterward she sang for him, the old song she 
cared for most, and for which he cared most because 
she did, until he slept. Then she thought to leave 
him that the cabman might go for a doctor. For 
something in his sleeping face accused and terrified 
her. But his small hands were locked in hers, and 
as she tried to take them away he claimed them. 

“Mama, has any one ever been to heaven and 
come back?” he asked. 

“No,” she answered. 

“Then how do they know what kind of a place it 
is— how beautiful it is?” 

“God has told us, just as I tell you about the 
beautiful earth. And we believe him, just as you— 
you—” her lips and throat went suddenly dry— 


64 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


^‘just as you believe me, because you love and trust 
me, and because I love you too well to deceive or 
pain— pain you. Because I ‘tell you true.’ ” 

The little boy breathed rapidly a moment. 

“Heaven can’t be more sweet than the earth you 
have made for me, mama dear.” 

“Oh, God bless you, my darling! But what is 
the matter? Why do you talk like that? Why are 
you so sweet and tender— and— and— different? 
Why do you smile in that new way, as if you were 
a man? I love— oh, I love everything you do and 
are! But would n’t you rather be a little boy, a 
little prince, such as you were a while ago, laughing, 
shouting, commanding, rather than a grown, grown 
manf^^ 

“AVhy, mama dear, that is just what I am— a 
little boy, a little prince!’^ 

And to prove that he was a boy he laughed. And 
to prove that he was a prince he closed her mouth 
with his hand and said: 

“You are not to ask me whether I am ill.” 

At this they both laughed genuinely. She had 
not for a long time been so reassured. 

But again, that night, she watched and saw his 
leaden face— saw that he did not sleep, saw that he 
gazed about in the semi-darkness. And when she 
went to her own bed and slept she had the curious 
sense that he had been from his, trailing his crip- 
pled leg on the floor, and that he had searched for 
and found something— something dreadful. 

‘ ‘ Oh, God ! ‘ What dreams may come ’ ! ” she said. 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


66 


In the morning Jack was strangely, fearsomely 
ill. The cabman brought a doctor. She held him 
on the stairs afterward. 

“I don’t know,” he said. ‘‘I ’m puzzled. What 
has happened to him?” 

‘‘Nothing,” answered the mother. 

“No shock? No wasting despair? No heart- 
breaking disappointment ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Heart-breaking ? ’ ’ 

“A child’s heart can be broken.” 

“But he! He has been absolutely happy. He 
has never shed a tear. Every wish he has ever had 
has been gratified. He has never heard an unkind 
word. He has been enveloped all his little life with 
all the love God has given me. There has been no 
one but him. I told you that he was born blind and 
crippled.” (She did not tell him how and when he 
was to die. She was fighting for every moment of 
his sweet life, and she would not put her weapons, 
as she fancied them, into the hands of her enemy, 
as she fancied him.) “I don’t remember when I 
first understood. But there came a time when I 
knew that ugliness and sorrow were pain and terror 
to him, that beauty and joy were life. After that 
I made the world all beauty and joy for him. And 
so he thinks it. It began with my earliest teaching. 
Nothing that might give him pain was ever spoken 
of. There has been nothing but joy. And then, 
later, I let him think he was a prince. Was that so 
wrong? I had made a world for him. I had peo- 
pled it. There was not a soul in it who, if not a 
prince, was not princely. And was he to be less? 


6 


66 


THE PEINCE OF ILLUSION 


Oh, it was not he alone. I too wished him to be a 
prince. Yes! And he has been that, too. Why, 
it was not wonderful. I had made a world. Might 
I not make a kingdom for my own son ? And I had 
made emperors. Might I not make him a prince? 
Oh, he has lived in the kingdom I gave him more 
happily than any earthly prince ever did. He has 
been more princely than any earthly prince ever was. 
And he will be to the end. And he is never to know. 
That is why I tell you. If you were to let him know 
I would kill you— 1 1 He shall never know until he 
is in the presence of God. And then— I pray him 
every night to have my forgiveness ready. Oh, I 
can trust Jack to forgive me, for then he will know. 
But can I trust God? That is what I ask you.” 
She put it with a primeval savagery, which turned 
his pulses to a slower measure. ^‘Can I trust God?” 

^‘Yes,” said the doctor, slowly; “I think you can 
trust God.” 

‘‘And it was well to do it?” 

This he did not answer, and she read in his face 
that he would not. She challenged him fiercely : 

“Coward! It was well! I know, if you do not, 
if you are afraid, if you are bound in the conven- 
tions of a mistaken world— I know that it was well. 
Who but him, in all this sad world, has never shed 
a tear? And what is there to seek in this world 
but the little happiness it can give? I said he 
should be happy. I have kept my word. I am 
gladr^ 

“But— if he should pay for it with his life?” ven- 
tured the good physician, out of the maze of her 
Protean emotions. 


THE PRINCE OP ILLUSION 


67 


‘‘He shall not! If you cannot save him, I can! 
I! I have made him live this long—’’ 

“God—” said the physician. But she did not 
hear him. 

“—I can make him live longer. Oh, there is but 
one immortal, omnipotent thing in this world— but 
one which performs miracles— heals the sick, raises 
the dead. It is a mother’s love. Do you hear? It 
is a mother ’s love. ’ ’ 

The doctor looked into her face. Then he sud- 
denly said: “God bless you!” 

She held out her hands to him. 

“Help me,” she begged. “You know nothing of 
it. You are a man ; I a woman— a mother. But— 
help me ! ” 

He took her hands. 

“Yes, with all the skill I have. But we must be 
on guard constantly. If he should regain his sight 
—the doctors do not always know— if he should re- 
gain his sight—” 

He had let go of her hands and was feeling his 
way down the stairs. His words came back from 
the darkness with an almost sibylline threat. She 
shrank slowly into the doorway. 

“Kegain his sight!” She was repeating it in ter- 
rible whispers. , 

The doctor did not hear. 

“—it would be difficult for him to understand— 
forgive. Oh, yes! Quite impossible in a boy like 
him. The pure motive. He could not grasp that, 
its exaltation, its nobility. And he might not be 
able to— to— endure the shock. He is only a boy, 
anemic and weak. Think a moment. Put yourself 


68 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


in his place. He would not survive it. He might 
hate you. Think of his understanding, seeing every- 
thing ! Himself ! Yourself ! ’ ^ 

At the last word he looked upward where she 
stood in the dimness, in the radiance of the small 
lamp, like a white goddess. Then he murmured to 
himself : 

‘‘Ah, yourself! Seeing you! That might mend 
it all!^^ 


XI 

AND HE WAS A PRINCE 

Again, on the dingy stairs— it was a month later— 
she looked into the kind doctor’s eyes. He said 
nothing. She leaned against the doorway and let 
her head droop. Then he spoke, with a compassion 
which had visited him not often in his busy life of 
healing. 

“Perhaps— to-night,” he said. 

He began to go. But he came back a moment 
to where she throbbed against the doorway. He 
held out his hands. She did not see them. 
He wished to say something, but there were no 
words. 

“To-night—” It was all he had. 

Then he went for the last time down the dingy 
stairs. 

And slowly, like the crumbling of the world she 
had made, she shrank to the floor. 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


69 


Then she wavered back to the immaculate bed. 
She put her arms close about Jack, and he put his 
about her. They looked into each other’s eyes. 
There were no tears. 

‘‘Oh, be brave, my darling,” she whispered; “be 
brave ! Oh, sweet one, you have been the prince all 
through, you have fought with me,— fight now!” 

“Have I been your prince, mama dear?” 

“My prince, my king, my all! Oh, Jack— Jack, 
my darling, can you go, dare you go, and leave me 
alone! Oh, think of the loneliness once more, once 
more, and be brave ! ’ ’ 

For a moment Jack drooped sorrowfully. 

“I am brave, mama darling,” he said then, very 
softly. “So are you brave, mama.” 

“Yes, yes, yes! Oh, forgive me, my sweetheart! 
But let us fight! Fight !^* 

“I do fight, mama dear. You don’t know how I 
fight.” His little voice rose in beseeching. “I do 
fight— for— 1 / 014 .'” 

“Yes! Fight now, and we shall win. Oh, how 
shall we do all the things we have planned when 
you are a man if you do not?” 

She could hear their hearts throbbing in strange 
disunison, his slowly and fitfully, hers stridently, re- 
belliously. Suddenly the terror and pity, the mock- 
ery of it all filled her soul. Silent, God-sent tears 
flooded her eyes. 

And Jack, forgetting, put up his little hand and 
tenderly brushed them away. 

“Don’t cry, mama dear; I am brave.” 

Then she understood. And he saw that she knew. 


70 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


For a minute— two, five, ten— neither spoke. Then 
it was Jack. 

“Yes,” he whispered with compassion, coming 
closer, and very happy; “and you will forgive me, 
mama darling, will you not? I did not mean to let 
you know. But now — let me wipe the tears out of 
your beautiful, beautiful eyes— I thought it would 
hurt you. Sometimes I was not sure, you are so 
brave. Only— only I thought a prince would do 
that— let you know— hurt you. And I 
wanted to be your prince— always — always — for 
ever and ever! Oh— just as in the— stories. But 
perhaps this is better, because something— maybe 
God— made it happen. Anyhow, I am happier to 
have you know— even if I cannot be your prince 
now— only your little boy. Mama darling, I am 
quite happy.” 

He paused then, creeping more upon her. 

“You are my prince!” she sobbed. “Oh!—” 

“Yes,” he whispered sweetly; “that is what I 
wished — ever since I knew. I wished you would 
say — that. Mama dear, I have not been blind since 
I saw the music. It is sixty-seven days. I have 
seen the music ever since — the strange trumpets and 
drums. I knew, the moment I heard it, that I was 
to see it. I had seen it always. And, mama dear,— 
this I do not like to tell,— I looked in the wonderful 
mirror— and I saw the picture of the splendid one 
—one night when you were sleeping. I got out of 
bed— and— I— satt; myself— and the splendid one. 
But first of all, mama— mama, my darling, I saw 
you! It was the night of the music. And all the 
sixty-seven days— I have seen— you.” 


THE PRINCE OF ILLUSION 


71 


He stopped, and looked up beseechingly into the 
tortured eyes above him. 

“Mama, do you forgive me? It was so sweet to 
see you! Forgive me — the rest!” 

“Yes; do you— forgive— me?” 

It made him very happy to answer: 

“With all my heart, mama darling!” 

“God— bless you— Jack!” 

A little silence fell, in which, again, she could 
hear the dithyrambic beating of their two hearts. 
Then Jack said very sweetly: 

“Mama darling, I did n’t want your heart to be 
hurt— any more— like— when the splendid one went 
— away. Mama— I had to go away— I could never 
be like the splendid one— but— / wanted to go away 
like a prince.” 

He reached vaguely upward. When he found 
her face he let his hands wander lovingly over it. 
Each dim feature felt the tiny pressure of their baby 
farewell. Last the hair. He let them stay among 
its splendid masses till they fell limply away. 

The mother’s arms closed avariciously about 
him. Their faces were close together. Their eyes 
spoke— each to the other for the first, the last, time. 

At the end his voice was but a pleasant, happy 
whisper out of the shadows. 

“Mama darling,” it said; “please— don’t be 
lonely—” then a long look— “there— is only— one 
thing— as beautiful— oh, more— more beautiful — 
than— you said— and— that— is— you.” 

Two tears, the first he had ever shed, came into 
his eyes, and then they lingeringly closed, looking 
into hers. 





•1 

■ 1 

i 

. t 




a 


DOLCE” 



DOLCE” 


i c 


T he haughty porter from down-stairs seldom 
deigned to notice Shandon— he was so evi- 
dently poor. But now he flung open the door,— it 
was ten o’clock in the morning,— and said, with 
offensive parade : 

lady to see signore!” 

To approaches such as these Shandon never re- 
sponded sweetly. And the porter needed taming. 
‘‘Mr. Shandon is— at— home 1” 

Shandon proceeded to light the fire. 

“But-” 

The porter had been subdued: Shandon was all 
the more savage. 

“Mr. Shandon is not 2 Lt—home!^^ 

He superbly got the pot for the eggs. 

Some one behind the man laughed. 

“Then it will be perfect-ly proper for me to 
come in?” 

She did so as she spoke, laughing. 

Shandon laughed too— very foolishly. 

The haughty porter slunk away. 

She who advanced upon the artist held out her 
hand. 

Shandon dropped the pot on the floor. 

75 


76 


“DOLCE” 


‘‘Er— the Contessa Cassoli!’’ 

‘‘Yes!’^ confirmed the young woman. ^^Now— 
will you not— shake the hands?” 

He took her proffered fingers. 

“I see that your memo-ry is longer than a night 
—as they say here in my Italy. And— I am most 
glad-” 

Shandon looked frightened. He felt stonily in- 
capable. She undertook his restoration. 

‘Ht is so disagree-able to be not remembered— and 
to have to— announce one's self— And— when it is 
a matter of bus-i-ness my aunt prefers to go straight 
at the spot— as I think they say in your America— ” 
all to reassure him. 

But it did not. He had not another word. 

She chose to perceive the pot he had dropped 
with such clamor. 

‘‘Oh!— I have spoiled your break-fast!” 

“Oh— no,” said Shandon, with desperate untruth. 

But he saw her glance from the eggs in his hand 
to the pot on the fioor and the fire in the oil-stove, 
and blushed. 

‘ ‘ Th-that will ki-ki-keep. ' ' 

“It will not!^^ protested the countess. “They 
never do. And they are most horrible when they 
do. It is a shame. And entirely my fault!” 

Then came an evident determination. 

“But it shall not be interrup-ted— not ! It shall 
go on quite as if I were not here. I can talk while 
you— cook and— eat— your break-fast. I shall like 
it.” 

“But 7 shall-” 


‘‘DOLCE 


77 


He had almost said “not’M 
She disposed herself upon his divan to do so. 
“Proceed with your break-fast, signore.” 
Nothing could have been more impossible. 

“I can nev-never talk so well— after eating— as— 
as before,” he said. 

The countess laughed suddenly and tossed her 
carriage cape on the divan. 

“/ will make it. I can cook— things. ” 

To Shandon ’s look of rue she said resolutely : 
“Yes!” 

She followed the cape with her chiffoned parasol, 
and that, after a moment of indecision, with her hat. 
With each her enthusiasm grew. She darted at his 
painting-blouse and slipped it over her head, mak- 
ing herself perilously disheveled and charming. 
Then she took the eggs from the nerveless hand of 
Shandon and secured the pot from the floor. 

“But— signore— please do not look so shock-ed— 
frighten-ed— rattled— as you say at America, I think 
—or I shall have to fancy that you do not wish—” 
And she lifted her eyes to Shandon ’s. 

“N-no— no— no.'” he declared violently to the 
eyes. “It is a very— i;ori/—hap-happy— occasion.” 

She looked up at him again, and Shandon put out 
his arm as one does in sparring. 

“Thanks! I like you to say that— and we can 
talk of the bus-i-ness— of my aunt while I—” 

She went about her task with a talent which was 
admirable. And she found with wondrous instinct 
every sordid thing which Shandon thought he had 
so cunningly hidden from the world. Many years 


78 


“DOLCE” 


of this had taught him that no one was likely to 
look for salt and pepper behind “The Last Sup- 
per/’ nor for butter in a Roman helmet. But she 
went straight to each secret spot. And yet he had 
the exquisite fancy that some brilliant butterfly- 
thing was doing it— and doing it as a butterfly 
would. He was receiving the impression of masses 
of blue hair— eyes like a night with fireflies in it— 
teeth that flashed through crimson lips — cheeks that 
flamed— swirling garments— surfs of lace— gleams 
of varnished leather— perfume— jewels— a spirit 
that rioted. 

He was a painter, you know. He was sentimental. 

Shandon did not care if he were not awake. He 
had, for a little, the whimsical fancy that he was 
not— quite. He did not care if he never woke. 

“Poor Shan-don!” she murmured. 

He answered with a laugh, but still was not sure. 

“I— I shall— help you!” Shandon asseverated 
bravely. But he only wandered about ineptly, drift- 
ing into her way and dancing out of it. 

She dropped the flour-duster. Shandon put it 
timorously into her hand. Their Angers met. He 
drew his hastily away. He was blushing. She 
looked at him in wonder. 

“I beg— your— your— pardon,” Shandon said. 

She gave him the wonder look again. 

“Oh! Yes! The hand!” She looked at it as 
if to learn why he did not wish to touch it. “Sig- 
nore, you must not wish with the eyes. Oh, nothing 
keeps one’s secrets so badly. You wish me to go.” 

“ Go ! ” It was a distinct negative. 


DOLCE 


79 


As if upon a sudden thought, she looked at his 
eyes. 

‘‘Blue-^’ 

And Shandon fancied she did not approve of 
blue eyes. 

“I ’m sorry,’’ he said. 

‘‘It is a pity— to spoil one’s break-fast!” 

“/ meant the eyes,” murmured Shandon, desper- 
ately. 

“ Oh ! — ” She looked at them again. 

“ Oh 1 ” observed Shandon. 

“And you have taken my spoon!” 

But Shandon did not find it in his possession. 

‘ ‘ In your coat pocket ! ’ ’ 

“I am not awake,” he laughed. 

“No?” 

She turned the rocking mirror upon him. Shan- 
don pulled up his collar. When she bent over his 
little stove, he slipped behind the curtain which hid 
his bed. But he stopped to catch her profile. He 
lost time at that— and more trying to remember 
what it was he wanted. 

“Signore!—” 

There was a clatter of cooking-things outside. 
Then he recollected that it was a collar. 

“—I am ready,” called the countess. 

He heard her low laugh. His own features 
smiled. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Shall it be an omelet?” 

“Yes.” 


80 


« DOLCE 


‘‘If there were another egg?” 

“I will send the porter out to— Pantelli^s. I 
often order my meals there— for an omelet. You 
can’t make an omelet in that pot. You need a pan 
and— ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I asked you if there was another egg, please ! ’ ’ 

Shandon surrendered. 

“Under the divan— in the Japanese tea-cozy.” 

“I suspec-ted every- where but there. Thank you 
—I have them. Now we shall do splendidly.” 

“We.?” 

“Would you turn me out?” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed Shandon. 

“When I am so hungry?” 

“Oh, you don’t mean it.” 

“I do.” 

“Well, I ’ll be hanged!” 

‘ ‘ Such a dreadful death ! ’ ’ 

Shandon laughed. 

“Wait for my omelet.” 

He anathematized collars in ecstasy. “Oh, hang 
the collars!” But then he found them. 

“I shall want you to set the table.” 

Shandon went into a panic— the fault of the 
collar. 

‘ ‘ Is there salt ? — and pepper ? ’ ’ 

“Behind ‘The Last Supper.’ It is a small copy.” 

“Yes! Hurry!” 

No omelet had ever smelled so delicious to Shan- 
don. The collar went on the button smoothly. He 
came forth and set the table. 


'‘DOLCE" 


81 


“Oh, I say,” protested Shandon, guiltily, “don’t 
bother so. I don’t often eat here. I only keep a 
few things about—” 

She looked up at him. Her eyes shone and her 
cheeks flamed. Both reproached him poignantly. 

“I have made myself horri-bly warm— and hun- 
gry!’' 

He was embarrassed by her loveliness. 

“—when I sleep too late— I was out very late last 
night, you know—” 

“Of course! Were we not at the same spot?” 

Her head, on a voyage of discovery, plunged be- 
hind a curtain which concealed a pine box, which 
in its turn concealed his daily bread. She drew it 
out, more exquisitely disheveled. 

“Fresh rolls!” She bit an end off of one. “I 
am getting hungrier and hungrier every minute! 
Oh!— we shall have coffee! Here it is!” 

In a steel helmet of the sixteenth century. 

“And the pot?” 

Shandon found it for her— in the interior of 
the same suit of armor— with the air of a galley- 
slave. 

“I don’t like to wash pots,” he defended. 

“ I do not, too, ’ ’ she comforted. ‘ ‘ But this one ? ’ ’ 

Shandon washed it. 

“It is perfectly lovely!” she said. 

Shandon grinned. 

“Not the pot?” 

“Perdono, signore, I am not always sure of my 
adjectives. Perhaps it is not lovely?” 

“Yes, it is,” said Shandon. 


82 


DOLCE'' 


But just then the other pot boiled over. 

“Do you put water in the pot first?’’ 

“Always— when I make an omelet.” 

“Why, that ’s j— ” He looked smilingly up at * 
the only picture of his own in the place. 

Then she made the coffee, and he dodged behind 
the curtain again and put on his red tie. 

“Now, then!” she called. 

But the tie was obdurate— and he meant to make 
a particularly fine bow. 

“In a minute, contessa!” 

“ Yes, ” she said with softness ; “ do not hurry. ’ ’ 

He heard her going about the room, fancying that 
an aureole of joy went with her. She hummed a 
low tune— something he had heard before. But it 
eluded him. Then at the piano. First a few soft 
notes. He meant to call out an apology for the in- 
strument. But then she played— the elusive thing 
she had hummed. It was something out of the long 
ago: “When other lips and other hearts—” and so 
on. And Shandon was dreadfully sentimental. 
Then “The Persian Garden,” which he remembered 
to have left on the rack. And the piano did not 
seem a poor one now. 

“ Yet, ah 1 that spring should vanish with the rose I " 

That youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close! 

The nightingale that in the branches sang — 

Ah, whence and whither flown again— who knows ?" 


“DOLCE” 


83 


He had not suspected such a voice in her— a color- 
ful, yet dainty, emotional mezzo. At the end it 
was almost a tragic voice. 

“And when, like her, O S^ki, yon shall pass 
Among the guests, star-scattered on the grass. 

And in yonr blissful errand reach the spot 
Where I made one — turn down an empty glass.” 

She stopped. There was no more. He listened— 
there was no more. 

Shandon opened the curtain a little. There was 
something piteous in her eyes — only a small thing. 
She was reading the words softly. Her arms were 
on the instrument before her. 

“And in your blissful errand reach the spot 
Where I made one — 

‘^Ah!— ” Her head drooped for a moment. 

She rose and went to the little table, picking up 
and putting down things. 

Then she stood before that picture of his and 
pulled up her skirt a little— disarranged her hair a 
little— took the awkward pose of it— laughed— 
sighed. 

A MOMENT later, Shandon took his place opposite 
her. She smiled. Her cheeks flamed royally. But 
her eyes did not quite match them. They were 
misty. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! ^ ’ she whispered, with a huge look at his tie. 


84 


“ DOLCE" 


Immediately she flung off the blouse and arranged 
her hair. 

‘‘And is it not just like a fairy-story! And I am 
so horri-bly fond of stories— of all kinds— fairy 
stories especially. Horri-bly? Is that not a proper 
adjec-tive?” 

Shandon approved of it. 

“And which is the head of it! Oh!— where you 
are, of course! That is such a flue thing about a 
man! This may have been the head before. But 
it is the foot now— because you are at the other 
end. ’ ’ 

She searched a moment for something. 

“And I have no fork!’’ 

‘ ‘ I gave you one, ’ ’ said Shandon, in acute distress. 

Then he found it — at his own plate. 

“Oh \—you gave it back to me. There is only one. 
The other one w^as lost.” They stopped to laugh 
together. 

‘ ‘ But there are two knives ! ’ ’ 

She showed an immediate interest in this trium- 
phant announcement. 

“Yes! We have plenty of knives! Yon changed 
the fork to my place—” 

He tried vainly to exchange it for her knife. 

‘ ‘ Oh, please ! I always eat with a knife. I pre- 
fer it.” 

“Shan-don!” she chided. 

“The fact is, there are hygienic reasons—” 

“Shan-do^/” 

“Why, 1 can eat with chopsticks ! I ’ve done it!” 

She kept the knife, though. 


‘‘DOLCE” 


85 


Permit me, signore, to help you to the omelet,’^ 
she said. 

She filled his plate. He tasted it timorously. 

“How is it?'' 

‘ ‘ Beautiful ! ' ' 

“Oh, how badly you choose adjectives! I know 
some English. Beau-ti-ful ! An omelet is never 
beau-ti-f ul ! ' ' 

“Pretty?" 

“Oh!" 

“Lovely?" 

“ Fright-f ul ! " 

“Perhaps because I 'm frightened?" 

“Yes— making your break-fast ! A perfect stran- 
ger! Am I not a perfect stranger? Yes! But— 
you thought I could not make an omelet, and I made 
you a beau-ti-ful one? or a pretty one? or a lovely 
one? Which? And— you wish me to go, do you 
not. Poor Signore Shan-don ! " 

“No," said Shandon, emphatically. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! You like my omelet ? ' ' 

“It is delicious, contessa." 

“Deli-ci-ous? Yes, that is proper, I think." 

“But you are not eating any of it!" 

“Behold!" 

She took a dainty mouthful from the point of her 
knife, then put her elbows on the table and looked 
across at him. She laughed slowly. 

“Oh, Shan-don! Signore Shan-don!" 

“Perhaps, contessa, you will be so good—" 

“As to relieve Signore Shan-don 's curiosity? Yes 


86 


DOLCE 


—yes, of course. not while you eat! You 

cannot talk while you eat. And— may I not for a 
little— a very little— enjoy your— your— ” 

“Bewilderment?’’ 

“What is your other name? Americans have sev- 
eral names, have they not?” 

“Yes,” answered Shandon. 

“I know one— George Wash-ing-ton. And, oh, 
another! Mister John L. Sulli-van. Are you a 
Mister ? ’ ’ 

“I am afraid I am— over there.” 

^ ‘ Everybody is ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You have not told me.” 

“What?” 

“Your other names.” 

He understood her sparring now, and sparred a 
little himself. For revenge was sweet— this revenge. 

“I thought I had told you.” 

“Yes— but you did not.” 

“I beg your pardon.” 

But now she understood and laughed joyously. 

“Oh, Shan-don! Last night you were so serious! 
So!” 

She showed him his pose. 

“And every word was so fine! Oh, I did not 
think you could be as you are— to-day!” 

The movement of her head said that this was dis- 
tressing. 

“Ah!— think of the difference in the circum- 
stances ! ’ ’ 

“You were in evening dress then.” 


‘‘DOLCE ” 


87 


Shandon blushed uncomfortably. 

‘‘And you looked very well.” 

He felt worse. 

“My aunt said you looked better than— any one 
else!” 

She saw his face sadden. 

“Oh, 1 do not know. Me? I do not know when 
a gentleman looks better than any one else. But 
my aunt! She knows! She is so wise! Me? I 
am f ool-ish ! ’ ’ 

“Thanks.” 

‘ ‘ That I am foolish ? ’ ’ 

Shandon laughed. 

“No. I know very little about— anything. You 
see, I just came from the convent a little while ago. 
Shan-don— I like a red tie.” 

He had the sense that they were quite even. She 
that they were more than even— that she could be 
generous. So she leaned her elbows again bewiteh- 
ingly on the table, and said: 

“Shan-don— what is it?” 

‘ ‘ Griscom. ’ ^ 

“Oh, I like that!— I like that very much. It is 
una- vailing— no, no, no! I mean uncom-mon— un- 
usu-al— yes! And what do they call you?— your 
very, very intimate friends? — for ‘short’ — as I think 
you say over there? No one is called by their for- 
mal name— is it not so?” 

“Griz,” smiled the artist. 

“I like that, too— Griz-z-z !” 

She buzzed it. 

“What is yours?” 


88 


« DOLCE ” 


After a moment she said, with halting softness : 

‘‘Dolce.” 

“Dolce!” 

They were silent. The name filtered through 
Shandon ineffably. Then his eyes frankly confessed 
and honestly begged. She understood. 

“Signore—” she said it sincerely— “last night 
you saw no-no evidences of aberration in me? 
You only remember-ed that I spoke English imper- 
fect-ly and comforted you in all the chatter at my 
dear aunt’s— did you not?” 

‘ ‘ Y es — yes I — comfort ! ’ ’ 

Shandon had had exactly that sensation. 

“And, therefore, you are trusting me to unfold 
my bus-i-ness— excuse me ! the bus-i-ness of my 
aunt!— as soon— as— the occa-si-on arrives?” 

‘ ‘ Certainly, ’ ’ protested Shandon, with instant gal- 
lantry. 

“And I remem-ber that you said you could not 
talk till after you had eaten— ’ ’ 

Shandon laughed, and the situation was again 
effervescent. 

“Will you not have some more of the omelet? 
Yes? And the bread? Yes? See how I can cut 
bread. ’ ’ 

She illustrated this accomplishment elaborately. 

“And do not forget yourself,” said her host. 

“Oh, I do not!” 

She again pecked at the bits on her plate. 

“Shall I send the poor footman down to report 
to my aunt concerning my health and safety?” 

She did this with some directions in Italian, of 


DOLCE 


89 


which he could understand only that some one did 
not comprehend. Her demeanor took on something 
hopeless as she gave them. 

When she turned she caught Shandon wondering. 

‘ ‘ And for that one night — ’ ’ she smiled divinely— 
‘‘we were such good friends! Almost com-rades! 
Do you not remember how you told me all about 
your America ? Oh, so dear— so dear— to you 1 Is it 
notr’ 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Shandon, with no pa- 
triotic enthusiasm. 

“But it is dear to you ! Yes 1 It must be 1 Just 
as Italy is dear to me. ’ ’ 

“Yes— yes, of course,” agreed Shandon, in dis- 
graceful haste. 

“And how I had nothing to tell you,” she re- 
sumed with instant sweetness, “about lovely Italy 
because I knew so little ? I told you I was in a con- 
vent, oh, so long, so long! It seemed ages! And 
only a little while ago my dear aunt came with a 
carriage and took me out. Shan-don— do you know 
why she took me out ? ’ ’ 

Shandon shook his head. 

“Oh, not because I had to be taught manners! 
No ! I have some manners. But to-day— signore, I 
do not know the manners of the world, perhaps, but 
only those of the convent. That is why.” 

“But I did n’t say a word about your manners! 
I— I like them!” 

She ignored this with subtlety. But it made her 
breathless. She hurried away. 


90 


DOLCE” 


“And it was very beauti-ful— at my aunt’s last 
night— it is always that way. At my aunt’s it is 
always beauti-ful. Everybody is charming— and 
they chatter in all the languages of the world— and 
they always wish to come again. So there are al- 
ways more and more. ’ ’ 

“Yes— it was very beautiful. But you have n’t 
told me why your aunt took you out of the con- 
vent.” 

“No.” She mourned a moment. “She said it 
was time for me— to be— married. So she told the 
mother superior— and they— laughed ! I listened— 
I heard them— laugh!” 

Shandon laughed too. 

“And I have not the slightest wish—” she halted. 

“I should think not!” 

“And no one wishes— ” Again she did not finish. 

“Certainly not!” 

She looked at him reproachfully. 

“I meant— ha, ha— of course— I meant— unless 
you should wish ! ’ ’ 

“Did you wonder, perhaps, how my aunt found 
you out? Oh, she finds all Americans. She loves 
them— every one of them— no matter how— unde- 
serving. ’ ’ 

She smiled like a child over at Shandon. 

“Some of them she loves very much— because they 
are- sweet. She adores sweetness in a man. She sent 
me to see you because— Shan-don— you are not rich, 
are you?” 

She looked up at the splendid tapestry which lit 
the other wall. 


''DOLCE” 


91 


“I am very poor/’ said Shandon, with something 
beautiful in his blue eyes as he let them rest a mo- 
ment on hers. ‘‘That was given to me since I came 
to Florence— I do not know by whom. I did not 
think I had a friend— here.” 

She drooped her eyes to her plate and took up the 
knife. Her hand was not quite steady. 

“Something she loved very much was lost over 
there— long, long, long ago ! And the moment they 
knew it they all helped— oh, helped till it was found ! 
Did she tell you about it ? ” 

“No,” said Shandon. “She told me something. 
But I had not you at the time for interpreter, — I 
thought you forsook me at that most critical of mo- 
ments !— and I do not now know what it was. I am 
afraid she thinks I do, and that when we meet again 
I shall be rather embarrassed. Please tell me.” 

“No!” said the countess. “She must tell you 
herself. She always does. She would not forgive 
me if I did. But I will tell her that you do not 
under-stand Italian well, and that you did not quite 
catch her meaning— and the next time I will be your 
interpreter. I— I had to leave you at that moment! 
Oh, she will not mind telling it again. She will like 
it. It is my greatest difficulty to keep her from 
telling it again— to the same person. But Ameri- 
cans ! They are so good ! They do not mind. Oh, 
there is none like them— my aunt thinks ! She never 
tires telling it— to Americans. And they never tire 
of hearing it— Americans. But— she never tells it 
to any but— Americans ! I had forgotten that. It 
is sacred to them. Like an epitaph. And most 


92 


DOLCE 


sacred to artists. You will hear it again. Pray be 
sweet to her.^^ 

‘‘Be sweet to her!” 

His inflections told her how impossible it would be 
to be anything else. 

“And, signore, are you yet able to talk busi- 
ness?” 

‘ ‘ Hang business ! ^ ’ 

She pretended she had not heard it. He re- 
gretted it. 

“You must see, signore,” she went on contritely, 
“that the circum-stan-ces— You were hungry. So 
was I. There were eggs; in your hand— a pot; on 
the floor— a fire— a cook. Well, shall one— two!— go 
hungry? And I make beauti-ful omelets— do I 
not ? ’ ^ 

“You do. Choose your own adjective.” 

“And you are not hungry now, signore?” 

“No.” 

“And yet you have eaten only a little.” 

“Oh!” 

“Shan-don— did you think you had eaten muchf^^ 

“ Yes ! ” laughed Shandon. 

“/ think you are only happier— a little happier— 
Signore Shan-don— that is perhaps all?” 

Shandon gave her again the joyous monosyl- 
lable. 

“And you are all dressed up— quite as if it were 
a dinner— perhaps on Sunday.” 

“lam sorry I was not when you came. ’ * 

“I do like red ties, signore.” 

Shandon laughed convulsively. 


“DOLCE” 


93 


Just then the footman returned with a shadowy 
smile upon his face, ^liat he said was again not 
quite plain to Shandon’s understanding of Italian. 
But it was something about not being shocking, 
nevertheless. 

“Shan-don— do you remem-ber the little story you 
told me last night?— behind the jasmine screen?— 
where it was so quiet?— and beauti-ful?— of a dear 
little girl?— with torn clothing?” 

Shandon looked up in question. 

‘‘Ah—” she chided reproachfully— “you do not 
remem-ber ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I remember perfectly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It was a beauti-ful little story. I like to be told 
stories. You must have seen that. My aunt can 
never get me filled so full that I do not wish for 
more. But her stories are all about priests— and 
cardinals— and now and then a monsignore— and 
she tells them in whispers as if it was all terrible. 
And often it is not— not at all! Never a thing 
about poor little girls with torn clothing and starved 
faces. Or, if she remembers what I wish and be- 
gins in a proper tone, she always ends in those hor- 
rid whispers. So that I look about me for a man 
in a long black cloak, with his face hidden in it. 
But your stories, signore— oh, when you ended last 
night your voice trembled ! ’ ^ 

“Did it? It is a very sacred little story— to me.” 

“And to— me,” she said softly. 

“You?” 

“Me. You made me love the little girl. Shan- 
don— was it a real story? Did the little girl livef^’ 


94 


»DOLCE’» 


‘‘Yes.’’ 

“Signore — your voice trembles now — just a very 
little—” 

“I do not know why I told you— why I speak of 
it now— to you.” 

“To me.^” 

“To you.^^ 

“I begged you!” 

“I have never told it to any one else.” 

“I begged you. Shan-don— are you— ashamed 

that your voice trembles ? ’ ’ 

“No!” 

“Ashamed to tell it to— 

“No.” 

“No. Do not be ashamed. I like the voice to 
tremble when one tells a story— a story. And 
you are looking at the picture now ! And your eyes 
shine. Shan-don— is that she?” 

“That is she— God bless her!” 

“I thought so. I looked at it while you were be- 
hind the curtain— finding the red tie.” She laughed 
a little. “Then I played ‘The Persian Garden.’ ” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! — and your voice trembled ! ’ ’ 

“Yes. I am not ashamed, either, that my voice 
trembles. ’ ’ 

“No?” 

But he was looking at the picture. 

“Shan-don— tell me about it.” 

“You will not laugh?” 

“Shan-don! Do you not know that it is easier 
for me to cry than to laugh?” 

“No,” smiled Shandon. 


''DOLCE” 


96 


‘‘Why no?’’ 

“You are too joyous.” 

“But — women cry for — joy.^^ 

She waited. 

“Well— it is my first picture— as I said last 
night.” 

“Yes— go on, please.” 

“I thought I would set the world afire with it. 
Poor old world! Always being threatened with a 
conflagration by some chap of twenty-three. I 
know now that it is entirely fire-proof.” 

“The picture,” begged the girl. 

“Well— you see that I am poor— unknown. Per- 
mit me to confide to you that I did not seek for 
either of these things— and you will understand. 
That picture is my autobiography— and I love it 
accordingly. ’ ’ 

“Is that the only reason you love it?” 

“No.” 

Her eyes insisted, and he went on brutally: 

“That is the reason I give.” 

“Please, signore, tell me the real reason. Will 
you not tell— me 

She begged it. 

“My aunt wished to know more about you and 
your work. ’ ’ 

“There is no more. I have produced no ‘work.’ ” 

Shandon grew quite cold. 

“Signore— perdono I My aunt did not say that 
_but— Sometimes 1 do not choose my adjec-tives 
well. I did not mean ‘work’— but— just— just— 
things.” 


96 


“DOLCE” 


Shandon laughed. 

‘ ^ Ah, you forgive me ! ’ ^ 

‘‘Entirely. Forgive me.” 

“And will you sell my aunt the picture? She 
heard you speak of it last night.” 

“It is worthless— artistically.” 

“Yes. I will tell her so. But— will you sell itV* 

“ No ! ” laughed Shandon. 

A silence. Then, with softness : 

“Shan-don— would it hurt your heart to sell it?” 

“Hurt my heart?” 

“I have heard that it some-times does that— when 
one loves one’s picture— very much.” 

“Contessa, you are the strangest—” 

“Yes. But will it hurt your heart? If it will 
hurt your heart to part with it, my aunt will not 
wish it. She would not like to hurt your heart. 
But— she buys a picture from every American— no 
matter how undeserving—” she meant distinctly not 
to take the risk of complimenting him again— “how 
worth-less— because of what I told you,— they found 
the thing she loved so much— and an artist helped— 
helped more than any. Signore— please— wW it 
hurt your heart?” 

She leaned a little further toAvard him. 

“Hang it! I believe it would,” laughed Shan- 
don, ‘ ‘ bad as it is I ” 

‘ ‘ I am sorry. ’ ’ 

But she was glad. 

“Because it would hurt my heart?” 

“Sorry— that my aunt— cannot have the pic- 
ture.” 


<‘DOLCE>’ 


97 


She throbbed with joy as she said it. 

‘‘I did n’t say she could n’t have it.” 

She flared at him savagely. 

‘‘You shall not part with it!” 

“No!” 

He quite met her savagery. 

“No?”— but a soft interrogation now, which re- 
gretted what had gone before. 

“There is not enough money in the world to buy 
that picture ! ’ ’ 

She paused, delighted, for breath— then: 

“That is what I have heard— that some— love— 
their art so much— that it would hurt the heart to 
—part with the first— picture— and that there is not 
money enough—” 

She looked up at it. 

“Signore— the face is Italian!” 

“Yes.” 

“You did not tell me last night that the little girl 
was Italian. Did you not wish me to know ? ’ ’ 

“Not at all.” 

“Please tell me all you did not tell me last night. 
Signore, I am a woman— just from the convent. 
And every woman likes stories— such stories as you 
tell- after the convent— and the priests— and cardi- 
nals. Signore—” 

“Well— she was only an Italian girl living in 
Little Italy, which is the Italian colony in Phila- 
delphia. ’ ’ 

“Yes— yes!” She grasped this with avidity. 
“And Phil-a-del-phia is in United States America? 
—where you come from ? I have read of that place. 


7 


98 


‘‘DOLCE'' 


Quakers who wear the hat always— to eat— to sleep 
—always— liYe there— Goon— on— !” 

found her there one day in exactly that dress, 
and painted her — that ’s about all there is to tell.’’ 

“Had she really such dreadful clothing?” 

“I am happy to say she had,” laughed Shandon. 

‘ ‘ Happy ? ’ ’ 

“Without the clothing she would have been use- 
less-” 

“Shan-don!” 

‘ ‘ — artistically. ’ ’ 

“Oh!— such a torn dress— so torn?” 

“Yes.” 

“Such a starved little face! Was it so9— 
starved?’^ 

“Yes.” 

“Yet— it is pretty, is it not?” 

Shandon looked at it a long time. Then he said : 

“No— it is beautiful!” 

As he turned suddenly at a quick breath he caught 
her wide eyes. 

“You think so?” she asked critically, narrowing 
her eyes. 

“Did you ever see such eyes in the head of a 
little girl? They look like those of a woman— a 
woman who has had vast experiences— has perhaps 
loved deeply! And that sumptuous mass of blue 
hair looks again like a— woman. The mouth could 
scarcely be more perfect. The lips were as daintily 
red as that. Thank Heaven, the lips nearly always 
retain their delicacy. The whole face is womanly 
and refined in a degree seldom seen, I think, in a 
girl of twelve.” 


^^DOLCE” 


99 


“ Signore/’ said the girl, with a strange gentle- 
ness, “sometimes you choose adjectives very well.” 

“Now you choose some,” laughed Shandon. 
“What do you see in the picture?” 

The girl looked, and then said wondrously: 

“Only the cold little hands— and the trust in the 
face— the trust! Signore— the little shoes look as 
if they had no soles.” 

‘ ‘ They had none I ’ ’ 

“Oh! Shan-don— Signore Shan-don, were not you 
ashamed to make public so much pover-ty ? ’ ’ 

“It was beautiful.” 

‘ ‘ It was pover-ty ! ’ ’ 

“Do you not see that it is full of color?” 

Their eyes suddenly met and agreed. The coun- 
tess withdrew hers. 

“Yes,” she said. 

Shandon stood up before it— head back, shoulders 
up, eyes alight— his most splendid attitude. He did 
not see the countess for the moment. 

“It is full of red and yellow and purple! It 
sings ! ’ ’ 

“ ¥65.' ” Something lit the girl ’s face also. 

Shandon continued to look. 

“Speak on,” said the girl, looking at him— not 
the picture. “Speak!” 

“Oh, color— color— color !” 

But then he came out of his mood and laughed. 

‘ ‘ I cannot paint in grays and blacks ! ’ ’ 

“Speak on. Yes, color! color!” begged the girl 
again. “And tones!— there is nothing like color— 
and tones— /iwmaw tones !” 

Now Shandon was not sure of her— so protean. 

LofO. 


100 


“DOLCE 


‘‘That is the way a man should speak— as if he 
knew. A man!’’ 

“Thanks,” said Shandon, uncertainly. 

“Ah, Shan-don— were you not cruel— to paint her 
that way— so that always hereafter— every one— all 
the whole world— would know that once she was— a 
beggar ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Cruel to paint happiness ? ’ ’ 

“You think she was happy?” 

“I know she was.” 

“And is happiness so rare?” 

will never know that it is, contessa. But 
this little girl and I lived in the world. ’ ’ 

“And I have lived only in—” 

“Cloisters.” 

“Yes. And you think I do not know how to be 
unhappy. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Yes. What made her so happy— the dear little 
girl?” 

“God, I suppose.” 

“And you had nothing to do with it?” 

‘ ‘ She was happy to be painted. ’ ’ 

“By yoUj perhaps.” 

“I would be glad to think that.” 

“If I were you, signore— Signore Shan-don, I 
would think that. ’ ’ 

Shandon was silent. 

“Will it not make you happier?” 

“Yes.” 

“And it will not matter — now— to her. Oh, per- 
haps she is dead?” 


'‘DOLCE'» 


101 


‘‘Perhaps. But she should have lived. 

“ Signore— why r ’ 

‘ ‘ The world is always better for such sweet lives. ’ ’ 

“You are, signore, are you not?— better for her— 
sweet life?” 

‘ ‘ Why, yes, God bless her, I am. ’ ’ 

“And, signore— I must go. My aunt—” 

She began to rise. 

“Oh, don’t-” 

It slipped out before he could stop it. Then he 
got very red in the face. 

“I beg your pardon—” 

The countess stood, but did not quite go. 

“Of course—” 

Shandon did not know what was to follow, so 
nothing did. 

‘ ‘ Of course, ’ ’ echoed the countess. 

She slowly subsided to her chair and looked at 
him out of the tops of her eyes. He could not 
lighten the uncertain situation. 

“Signore— was that all?— the painting? Did you 
never see her again ? I should go. But the story — ’ ’ 

Shandon hesitated. The countess sighed. 

“It is such a beauti-ful little story— and I am 
so fond of stories— that I would take the risk— I 
have already stayed so long— but you do not wish 
me—” 

‘ ‘ That was all, ’ ’ said Shandon, then, with the sig- 
nals of guilt in his face. 

The countess rose superbly. 

“That is not all. Stories are not like that. And 


102 


‘‘DOLCE" 


you shall not dismiss me! It is far from polite- 
after saying, ^Oh, don’t!^ And I am— 

Shandon swept an humble obeisance. 

‘‘Eccellenza the Contessa Cassoli.^’ 

She laughed. So did Shandon. 

‘‘And you were the dearest of friends after- 
ward?'' 

“Yes.” 

“Of course! Do I not know how proper stories 
go ? No one knows better. And did you like her ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Very much?” 

“Yes.” 

“And she liked you?” 

“Yes— as much as a child could like such a pa- 
triarch.” 

‘ ‘ What did you do to make her like you so much ? ’ ^ 

“Took her for long walks in the sun. Worked 
the slot machines for chocolates. Went into the 
swarming houses in the quarter and chatted. Sang 
along the streets. Stopped to hear the street pianos 
—sometimes danced to them in an alley. Told her 
stories— she never could get enough of them, either. 
Explored all the small holes and corners in the quar- 
ter. Did everything that two children out for play 
might do !” 

As Shandon laughed, his face became boyish. 

“Shan-don— it is in your face!” 

“What?” asked Shandon, in some alarm. 

“The joy.” 

“Oh!” 

“And then?” 


“DOLCE' 


103 


‘‘She did not come for a long time. I went to 
find her. She had disappeared.’^ 

“And forgot you! Oh, that is too bad!— not at 
all as a proper story should be— not at all!” 

‘ ‘ She did not forget me ! ” 

“Oh!” 

“She wrote me a little letter. I have it here.” 

He took a small worn parcel out of his pocket. 

“May I see it too, signore?” 

But, without waiting, she came an unthought step 
nearer. 

He selected an envelop from the bottom. 

They took me away. I did not wish to go. I will never 
forget you— never ! Do not forget me. They took me away ! 
Some day you shall come for me, and I will marry you as we 
agreed. They took me away. I did not wish. Write to me. 

Madeline. 

The countess absently took the letter out of his 
hand. 

“Shan-don— that is a beauti-ful little letter— oh, 
very beauti-ful ! Yet perhaps / do not choose adjec- 
tives well to-day? Perhaps it is only a nice little 
letter ? ’ ’ 

“Why is it not beautiful?” belligerently. 

“I beg signore’s pardon. ‘Some day you shall 
come for me— and I will marry you— as we 
agreed,’ ” she read again softly. 

‘ ‘ Dear little beggar ! ’ ’ 

“Beggar— yes! Only a beggar! And what are 
these ? ’ ’ 

She touched some wrinkled little blots. 


104 


“DOLCE 


do not know.” Shandon blushed again. 

‘‘Shan-don— they are tearsT^ 

‘^D-do you think so?” 

“Yes.” 

Shandon hurried away from this suggestion. 
“She has sent one each year. They are exactly 
alike.” 

She would have them opened to see. 

“Eleven!” she counted. 

“Yes.” 

“And the last are better written than the first 
ones. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Quite like a young lady— who has been— 
taught. ' ’ 

She looked at the outsides of them. 

“And all postmarked Florence!” 

“This very city.” 

“Oh!— that is why you come to Florence?” 

Shandon said nothing for a space. 

“She was a child.” 

“Yes! And Florence is so full of children!” 

“Yes.” 

“But it is not a large city.” 

“No.” 

“If you would let me help you— I know all the 
lowly parts of the city— oh, so much better than the 
others. Signore— I love the lowly parts more. There 
are stories there— oh, in all the faces— in all the 
doors and windows of the houses— in the shops— in 
the laughter— in the tears— in the festivals— stories ! 
I know all the lowly parts of the city. Will you let 


‘^DOLCE” 


105 


me help you to find the little girl with the torn 
dress ? ’ ' 

“Let you help? The Contessa Cassoli!^^ 

‘ ‘ Oh, I shall be more glad than you ! ’ ’ 

“But-’^ 

“My aunt— my dear aunt— shall help too! How 
shall we begin ? ’ ’ 

Shandon did not know. 

“Oh, I know! We shall go through all the poor 
parts of the city— yes— where the streets are narrow 
and crooked— and the houses lean together at the 
tops— as if to salute each other— and the wash hangs 
between— we shall have to walk because it is so nar- 
row— and there will be children and children and 
children ! And we shall ask— ask— ask ! ’ ’ 

She was contagious. 

“Yes!” cried Shandon. 

Signore! She is no child now!” 

And Shandon had not thought much about that. 

“Why, no! She ’s— she ^s— a young woman!” 

“Yes!” agreed the countess, as if it were a 
calamity. 

“By Jove!” 

“Perhaps you would not like that— going through 
the narrow streets— where the garlic smells— with 
me— always very close to you— for /ear— searching 
for— asking for— a— young woman?” 

“No,” said Shandon, absently. 

“And when you find her— for you would find her 
—perhaps she would not be pleased to have me with 
you?” 

“No.” 


106 


'^DOLCE^' 


‘‘You would not be ashamed of her— the little 
beggar ? ’ ’ 

“No/^ 

“Shan-don— we will not try to find her!” 

Shandon woke up. 

“Not? Why?” 

“It might make her more unhappy than happy. 
It might make you more unhappy than happy. ’ ’ 

Shandon looked an interrogation. 

She might be— ashamed.” 

“Yes.” 

But this did not seem to matter. 

“Signore — perhaps you — love her?” 

“She is a child.” 

“You said a young woman.” 

“Well-” 

“A girl— in Italy— is quite a little woman at 
twelve. A girl is always a woman before a boy is 
a man. She plays mother to her dolls at three. A 
boy never plays at being father with his dolls. ’ ’ 

Shandon ’s eyes were seeing things three thousand 
miles away 1 He smiled. 

“After the first sitting I was afraid I should 
never see her again, so I took her to a cheap store 
in South street and bought her a frock and shoes 
and stockings, and had them put on her. Then I 
took the other ones home and kept them. And when 
she would come to sit she would change the new for 
the old clothes. Afterward she wanted me to get 
her a long— very long dress!” 

“A train?” 

“Yes— a train!” 


‘'DOLCE” 


107 


^ ^ Speak on, signore. Hasten ! ’ ’ 

‘‘After the sittings we would go to a cheap restau- 
rant and eat— and be ‘happy,’ as she said.” 

“And further?” 

“We would walk. She would hold my hand.” 

“And?” 

“Once she said that if I would get her the long 
frock we could be married sooner.” 

‘ ‘ But you did n ’t get it ? Cruel, signore ! ’ ’ 

“No; I said she must wait.” 

Shandon laughed the boyish laugh again. 

“And did she say she would?” 

“Yes. Forever! And she made me promise that 
I would.” 

“And you did?” 

“Of course!” 

He laughed again. 

“ I do not like that laugh. ’ ’ 

“Nor I,” agreed Shandon, very seriously. 

“Shan-don— was she never jealous?” 

Shandon ’s eyes made inquiry. 

“Oh— no Italian girl ever loved a man without 
being jealous ! Yes! Of everything and everybody ! 
Dogs— cats— horses !— wwk !— play \— women!' ^ 

Shandon smiled a little superiorly. 

“But it is true! There may be no cause— no! 
But she would not be happy unless she were jealous. 
It is a part of love. Oh, love is torment! The 
divinest torment that— Shan-don— did you never do 
anything to make her jealous? No, no, no! Did 
you ever do anything of which she might— ought— 
to have been jealous— if— if she had known?” 


108 


‘‘DOLCE” 


‘‘Yes/’ laughed Shandon. 

“You!— you did i\idX—youf Shan-don!” 

“Belle Girton picked us up one day, in Belle 
Girton’s spasmodic way, and bundled us both into 
her carriage. The Society for the Protection of 
Children was her fad that year. She was looking 
for some one— a girl, I think— a little one— who had 
been stolen from her parents in some foreign coun- 
try — for ransom — or something like that. She 
thought we could aid her. She— Belle— went with 
us to the cheap restaurant that day to dine. We 
had to walk part of the way. She walked between 
us and held my hand all the time— very tightly. 
She would not speak to Belle. ’ ’ 

“That is right! That is the way it should be in 
a story. That is the way 1 would have- it !” 

“I had almost forgotten that it was a story I was 
telling you.” He laughed happily, though. 

“Shan-don— it makes you more and more happy 
—to tell about it.” 

“Yes.” 

“Shan-don— what was the color of the other 
lady’s hair?” 

“Red.” 

“And no one in your America, I think, loves red 
hair?” 

“No.” 

“Black hair is pret-tier?” 

“Yes.” 

She gave him an opportunity to inspect her own. 

“And did you perhaps have a little stove in the 
studio— like this? And did you cook things?— like 


^‘DOLCE” 


109 


this? You and she? Perhaps you taught her?— 
you are so very wise— about cooking things. Ah, 
but that would have been too sweet— for the story! 
We must not have the most impossible things in it! 
But— 2/es/— it must have been! I will have it so! 
I wish it for the dear story. Do not say no ! How- 
ever impossible— there was a little stove in the 
studio ! ’ ’ 

“There was!’’ 

“Shan-don!” 

“And it was sweet— since you speak of it!” 

“And after the sittings— you cooked the little 
supper— and ate— perhaps ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes — by J o ve ! You make it delicious ! ’ ’ 

“Me? But I am not telling the story— am I tell- 
ing the story? And maybe you had to run out and 
get something you had forgotten? Often it is so in 
stories. Perhaps the pepper ? — or the salt ? ’ ’ 

“Yes! Or the water!” 

“And sometimes you had, perhaps — omelets 

They laughed together. 

“As to-day?” 

“That was her specialty. Mine was potato-hash.” 

“Potato-hash?” 

“Oh, you never heard of it before,” laughed the 
artist, “and it is quite useless to undertake to tell 
you what it is.” 

“It is too diffi-cult?” 

“Too difficult.” 

“Shall I tell youf^’ 

But she only laughed and did not— as if confess- 
ing that she could not. 


110 


“DOLCE” 


‘‘And oh, signore— the dear little story has— pos- 
sessed me ! Let us fancy that the little ragged lady 
was a princess ! Like the little girl you were search- 
ing for ! She was something, was she not ? ’ ’ 

“Well— there is no law against fancying anything 
we please.” 

She chose to convict him of indifference. 

“Ah, you do not care any longer about the little 
story. You let me tell it all! You do not care 
whether she was a princess. You would as soon 
have her the little beggar. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Shandon. 

“The little beggar?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Then I cannot go on. I do not want her to be a 
little beggar. Ah, I must go—” 

She quite evidently meant to go— and wished to 
stay. 

‘ ‘ Have her a princess, then, but do not— ’ ’ 

“Change her heart? No. Well, then—” She 
reclaimed her enthusiasm. “Let us hasten. I must 
go. She— the beggar girl— the little princess 
they were seeking! Yes! And she knew she was 
the princess they were seeking. But she would not 
tell them because she would rather be with you — 
take those walks— be painted by you— cook those 
little suppers— eat them— hold your hand— be jeal- 
ous of you— oh, all and everything you did together 
—than go away and be a princess ! There ! That ’s 
the way a proper story should be ! Do I not know ? 
Do not tell me that it was not so! I know that. 


“DOLCE 


111 


But I will have it so for the sake of the dear story. 
Of course! I know what you are saying: that it 
was very foolish to wish to be with you— only a 
starving young artist 1— in rags almost— rather than 
be a princess in the finest frocks— with mirrors— and 
a maid— to do her hair and nails— and not needing 
to cook things— but to have them all nicely cooked 
for her— and brought by servants and set down be- 
fore her — and thousands and thousands of other 
things— was n’t that very, very foolish, Shan-don?” 

‘‘Of course,” agreed Shandon, sadly. 

“But as it is only fancy, we can have her as fool- 
ish as we please— and some fancies are foolish- 
very. ’ ’ 

She waited, but Shandon was a little triste and 
quite silent. 

“Because you did not care—” 

“I?” 

Shandon was suddenly indignant. 

“I did care!” 

‘‘Oh— perdono, signore. How could I know? 
Then perhaps, after all, she was not so very, very 
foolish— if you cared. Do you perhaps mean that 
you— loved her?” 

“She was all I had. She was alone, so was I. I 
am still. She! Ah! I wish I knew!” 

“But— love?” 

“Yes.'— then.” 

“Ah, then she was not foolish! Not! Signore— 
if a woman has love— she would not give it for all 
the rest of the things in the world ! Yes, she would 
rather he a beggar with it than a princess without 


112 


‘‘DOLCE” 


it! Signore— why did you not write to the little 
girl?’’ 

‘‘How could I?” 

“Did you try?” 

“No.” 

“Did you not perhaps guess that she was waiting 
all the years for a letter ?— waiting!— and that when 
it did not come she perhaps thought you had forgot- 
ten? Ah, that is so sad— to think one has forgot- 
ten!” 

“It would have been impossible for a letter to 
find her.” 

“It would have found her in the remotest corner 
of the world— a letter with love in it! That is the 
way with letters with love in them. Shan-don— did 
you marry the lady wdth the red hair, perhaps ? ’ ’ 

“Marry the lady with the red hair? Oh—” He 
remembered. 

She interrupted him joyously. 

“Because if you had, we should have to change 
the story. Signore— if you married any one, we 
shall have to change the story.” 

“You need not change the story.” 

“ Oh !— ” She caught her breath with suppressed 
rapture. “That is— everything is— just right— up 
to this point— for the story! But, yes, I must stop 
—and go— for I have taken it out of your hands.” 

She started— this time with determination. 

“My head.” 

She stopped to say : 

‘ ‘ Perhaps— even— your —heart ? ’ ’ 


“DOLCE” 


113 


^‘Perhaps even my soul!^’ 

They laughed together. 

“ Never- the-less, so far it is quite a proper story. 
Oh, so much better than any my aunt ever told 
me! But, signore, how shall it end? I am un- 
certain about the ending. Cannot you help— at the 
end? I shall stay— just a moment more— for the— 
ending. ^ ’ 

A beautiful wistfulness crossed her face. 

“Oh— I should spoil it if I tried to end it.^’ 

“You would not spoil it, Shan-don— you would 
not spoil it! Shan-don— you? Try! No? 
But— if you wish?— it shall be as 1 like. Let me 
see. It was quite right-about the lady with the 
red hair. Do you not think so?’^ 

“Of course! I did n’t love her. She did n’t 
love me. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that is beauti-ful! No, no, no! I must 
learn to choose adjec-tives in English better. But 
it was at least quite proper. No one should marry 
another if he does not love— and vice versa. And, 
signore, it is most right that you did not marry 
any one.” 

“Why? People do marry.” 

‘ ‘ It would spoil the dear story ! Euin it ! Marry ! 
Yes. Oh, yes ! But a gentle-man— Si gentle-man in 
a story— such, a dear little story as yours— almost I 
said ours !— he must— Why, Shan-don, do you not 
see that the story cannot end properly until he finds 
the little girl— with everything torn— the stockings 
—the dress— the shoes— the beggar princess— do you 
not understand?— one who tells a story as well as 


114 


“DOLCE” 


you do? Oh, Shan-don! Do not all proper stories 
end that way?’’ 

“All but mine,” smiled Shandon, piteously. 

Her voice faltered when she spoke again : 

“Will you let yours end— Shan-don— ” 

He cut her phrase in two. 

“It has ended.” 

She bravely gave him the rest of her question : 

‘ ‘ — without trying— to find her ? ’ ’ 

“Trying? I have searched this city from end to 
end!” 

She faltered more now. 

“If 7 should— find— her— for— you— ” 

Shandon burst out: 

“Find her!” 

“And— I must go—Sit once.” 

She rose in a sudden affright, but now she could 
not go. 

Shandon savagely— unconsciously— blocked the 
way. 

“Find her!” 

“For, all this time my aunt has been waiting in 
the cold carriage—” 

She moved to pass on his right. He put up his 
hand. 

“It is not cold.” 

“No? And she is very amiable— my sweet aunt. 
But— perhaps the man would go down— to see— 
whether she is still waiting? And to tell her— that 
I am— coming?” 

Shandon sent him down. 

“Thank— you— ” 


“DOLCE” 


115 


She reached the divan and put on her hat. Shan- 
don had retreated to the table. From there — uncer- 
tain now— distressed— he asked: 

‘‘Contessa— what did you come for?’’ 

^‘The picture— which I cannot have—” 

She turned and saw that Shandon’s head was de- 
jectedly in his hands. 

“Shan-don! Signore Shan-don— perdono.” 

He looked up and laughed— a little woefully. 
Then he, too, rose. 

‘‘Have I hurt you? Has it hurt your heart— to 
make you tell the little story?” 

“No,” he smiled sadly, holding out her cape. “It 
has been good— very good— for my heart.” 

“And— mine— ” 

“Yours?” 

“I did not finish it— quite— you did not. Do you 
wish to finish it?— to have it— finish-ed? Quite 

She put on courage with trembling. 

“Yes! What became of the little— princess you 
called her?— after she left Philadelphia?” Shandon 
asked. 

He tucked her cape under his arm and stood there 
before her. She surveyed him. He was very good 
to look upon. And— it was her cape he held— so 
much like a prince !— under his arm ! She went on : 

“Oh— let me see! They sent her to a great con- 
vent, and put pretty clothes upon her, and taught 
her manners and wis-dom till she was tired — tired 
—tired !— till she would have given anything— every- 
thing in the world— for one brief hour of Little 
Italy— and— Ah, it is always so— in stories. 
Alas ! only in stories ! And the happiest day of the 


116 


“DOLCE" 


year was the fifth of June, when she— did you not 
say she wrote to you on the fifth day of June? No? 
But I think you did. Oh, you did— you did ! And 
she left the convent and became a lady. But she 
has never been so happy as she was in Little Italy— 
never so happy in the great Italy. And— oh— she 
never forgot how to make an omelet— nor how to 
eat with a knife— when there were no forks— per- 
haps she will always do those things sometimes be- 
cause of him. Signore, she has never forgotten him 
for one little minute— and never will! She has 
never ceased looking for the letter that has never 
come. She has never ceased to pray that he might 
be so hungry for the hair and eyes and hands and 
lips he once adored that he could not stay away! 
Shan-don ! ’ ’ 

She stood before him like a penitent. 

He was a stone. 

The girl laughed hopelessly. The courage was 
quite gone. Only the trembling remained— and now 
a little terror. 

“Or would you have the sweet story to end the 
other way— that she has— forgotten all about him 
—and married some one— some one who sleeps after 
dinner— and is stout— and is at this moment living 
—very unhappily ever after? Or that you— Shan- 
don— that 2/0^^— Shan-don!— forgot her— the joy— 
allV 

And then one hopeless rush toward the door. 

Now he knew. And the countess was gasping like 
a bird in a snare. He stood in the doorway. 


“DOLCE 


117 


Signore— if you will— sell the picture— to my 
aunt— who waits—’’ She could not pass— not even 
approach him. 

‘ ‘ Sell the picture ! No ! ” 

She suddenly covered her face from Shandon. 
There was something accusing in his sad eyes. 

'‘Shan-don!” she pleaded. 

He went unsteadily to where the picture was 
hung. 

^‘Good-by!” 

The door was unguarded. She fled toward it. 

‘‘Wait!” Shandon commanded. 

She stopped against the doorway, panting. 

Shandon took down the picture, and with his 
sleeve brushed off the dust. A brief tenderness 
shone in his eyes. Then he brought it to her. She 
advanced a step, wondering. 

‘ ‘ I give it to you. ’ ’ 

“Shan-don! Why?— why— to me?” 

“To destroy.” He got her one of the knives. 
She obediently put out her hand for it. But it clat- 
tered to the floor. She sank to her knees before the 
picture. 

“Destroy! Oh,— no! Shan-don, wo/” 

Shandon went to the box with a curtain. From it 
he took a parcel. 

“You have made me tell all the story of an im- 
possible passion. You have made foolish what was 
sacred. You have destroyed the one dream of a 
dreamer. You laugh. Laugh at this also. This 
also I give to you. There is nothing more. I have 
detained you, I beg you to— go.” 


118 


'‘DOLCE” 


It was the ragged dress of a little girl. A worn 
pair of small shoes could be seen within it— a pair 
of torn stockings. 

“This— also! Oh, Shan-don— no.'’’ 

She took it— there on her knees— and kissed it rav- 
enously— tore it apart and kissed each piece. She 
rose hopelessly and went— then wavered back. She 
spoke over her shoulder. 

“Shan-don! Oh, Shan-don, I do no^— laugh!” 

She slowly turned and met his eyes. 

“Shan-don-I-weep!” 

It was so. He would have taken her hands. He 
would have kissed them— on his knees. 

“No-no!” she begged piteously, going a little 
from him. “Do not hurt me— more— do not hurt 
me!” 

“No.” 

“Do you under-stand?” she whispered. 

“I understand,” said Shandon. 

“You do not mis-under-stand ? ” 

“I do not misunderstand.” 

“It was so long— so long— so long!” 

‘ ‘ A thousand years ! ’ ’ 

“I had to tell you! It was so hard to do— oh, so 
cruel— so hard ! Always it is hard for a woman to 
tell one—” 

“Who does not understand?” 

“Yes,”— but a small whisper. 

“But how could I? How could I dream that I 
might be worthy of you—\hdX you— you— you— were 
-sher'^ 


“DOLCE” 


119 


He looked at the picture. 

The spirit which was so radiant a part of her 
came back to the girl’s face. 

‘‘Last night I did not sleep! It is so sad to not 
sleep— that— my aunt came to comfort me. And 
then I told her it was— you ! All the rest she knew 
long, long ago. And she said I might come— if I 
were brave enough. Shan-don— I am not brave! 
But I came. If I had not— She said that perhaps 
you had forgotten— did not care— You would not 
tell— I had to ask— Oh, Shan-don! It is better— 
far better to do what I have done— than- to not do 
it! Do you not think so?” She did not wait for 
his answer. “And— my aunt asks you to come to 
dinner to-night ! ’ ’ 

She let him put her cape over her shoulders. It 
was a caress. He lingered at it. 

As they went, he asked very softly— begging, as 
she had begged : 

“Was that the only thing you wanted? The pic- 
ture—” 

She looked back at him, up the steps, over her 
shoulder. She stopped— waited. 

“Oh, Shan-don!” 

“OTi/” 









EIN NIX-NUTZ 


if 



EIN NIX-NUTZ 


I 

‘^ain't it it?’' 

I T began with those thick-waisted Dnnkard women 
who took his ruddy face between their palms and 
called him “ ’n liefer, Meaner nix-nutz” (a darling 
little good-for-nothing) —felicitous terms then, but 
unfortunate ever after. For, once fixed upon a 
Pennsylvania German, the impeachment clings to 
him and blights him to his dying day— unless he 
demonstrates his thrift. If these kindly old wives 
had known that his birthday had fallen in the dark 
of the moon and the sign of the Scorpion, they 
would perhaps have mitigated a little their fatuous 
raptures. But it was only natural to presume, in 
the absence of knowledge, that such a fine boy had 
been born with a faultless horoscope. So, when 
later they learned that it was otherwise, they pitied 
the babe, and they pitied the mother so constantly, 
to her very face, that when the doctor one day told 
her the end was near, she smiled contentedly, and 
that night died. 

To the baby it made no difference. When the 
same sad-eyed women came, making on his little 
breast the mysterious sign which it was hoped might 
123 


124 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


charm away the evil to which he had been born, he 
seemed to kick up his heels. 

And this frivolous attitude of the baby was an 
added horror. 

Their open despondency was a constant irritation 
to Granny Bivenour, the accoucheuse. 

‘‘It ’s none of you^ business. He don’ belong to 
you* church, anyhow. Git along wiss yous!” And 
she would shake her fist at them in a defiant, mascu- 
line fashion as they hurried away from her. 

Alas! even she, when the Dunkard women were 
gone, would lock the doors and begin to perform cer- 
tain weird rites. After regarding him fixedly till 
her face took on a look of clairvoyance, she would 
begin a muffled incantation, keeping time with sol- 
emn passes down his body and outward toward all 
the places where evil spirits might find exit : 


‘‘ In a great green forest 
I see three wells, 

Cold and clear. 

The first is called courage. 

The second is called goodness. 
The third is called strength. 

t t t 

“So-oh-oh- 

Trotter-head, I forbid thee this house. 
Trotter-head, I forbid thee this cradle. 
Trotter-head, I forbid thee this body. 
Breathe not upon it. 

Breathe not into it. 

Breathe not within it. 

Breathe in hell I 

f t t 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


125 


Until thou ascendest every hill, 

Until thou Grossest every water, 

Until thou countest every blade of grass, 

Thou shalt not come hither.” 

t t 

These were doughty adjurations, and would ac- 
complish their beneficent purpose if it were possible 
of accomplishment; and upon that the accoucheuse 
rested. 

Though, instead of learning, the good midwife 
brought to her patients only this simple magic, she 
brought also a wonderful skill; and these two had 
long ago grown into an indistinguishable mixture of 
helpfulness. It was common fame that by arts 
known only to her she could hasten or retard the 
event for a more benignant horoscope— a thing the 
cunning midwife never denied. 

But she did read the stars and study the calendar 
to reinforce her experience as she waited to be called 
to this pretty young mother ; and when it was all of 
no avail, she could have wept—she did weep. So, 
when the Dunkard women blamed her for not delay- 
ing the accouchement until the moon had passed out 
of the Scorpion, she broke her professional reserve 
for once and hotly retorted that Tressler Kitzmiller 
had chosen his own birthday. From this awful pro- 
nouncement there was no appeal: a baby was held 
competent to do this, and there was no known magic 
against it. 

1 Three crosses occur at the end of each of the mystical for- 
mulae ; they signify the unspoken invocation of the Trinity ; 
without them the ” is worthless. The magical num- 

ber is three : one for each of the persons in the Trinity. 


126 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


Notwithstanding this, the old midwife took fierce 
care that Tress should learn nothing of the sad cir- 
cumstances of his birth; but when she died careless 
tongues were loosed, and he learned it all. Then the 
frank, boyish light began to go out of his face, and 
in its stead to come a furtive shrinking that was sad 
enough; for he was ruddy and wholesome to look 
upon. But to the old wives this was only the final 
proof of his unhappy condition. 

This they diligently pressed upon their husbands 
at certain intervals ; and these, though they had no 
triumph to celebrate in the sad event, could not 
stop the wearing iteration nor, finally, help agreeing 
meekly to the apparent facts. But it was ill luck to 
befriend one who had been thus misbegotten, so they 
perforce turned away from him until he had only his 
father for friend. 

Among the faded idlers at the store this gay old 
man was a notable figure. They were shy, bearded 
Dunkards; he— 

‘‘Now you fellers air somesing, an^ you^ church 
iss some goot to yous— tells yous how to cut you’ 
coats an’ britches, an’ how to comb you’ hair. 
Mine? Oach! I ain’t nossing but chust a Met’o- 
dist. T’ey don’ keer an’ if you got on a stof e-pipe 
an’ swaller-tail efery day in t’e week.” And he 
delighted to exhibit these articles of apparel, which 
he habitually wore. “D’ yous know ’at t’at ’s why 
I can’t sink hard off of my Tress for being a nixy— 
account his bringing up in t’e Met ’odist Church? 
Yit it ’s funny ’at you fellers take it so hard, w’ich 
don’t own him.” 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


127 


It seemed that they preferred to suffer the im- 
peachment rather than defend it, and the Vermont 
school-teacher interposed a question : 

‘‘What is a— a nix-nutz, Mr. Kitzmiller ? ’ ^ 

“Sam— aha, ha, ha!— you ’d stop a dog-fight wiss 
a question! Ast t’ese fellers, Sam; it ’s a kind o’ 
family secert wiss me. ’ ’ 

The school-teacher turned inquiringly to them; 
and with kindly regard for the presence of Tress’s 
father, they tried to enlighten him. They succeeded 
but indifferently; he was unsatisfied. 

“Mr. Kitz— ” he began. 

“Got back to old Kitz ag’in, hah? Well— a nix- 
nutz, Sam? I don’ know neit’er chust exsac’ly w’at 
it iss— anyhow, by t’e dictionary, Er— don’ you 
know, Sam, nossing ’bout it? Oh, you don’t, hah? 
You wass raised a Yankee— not? U-hu, u-hu! 
Funny, ain’t it, ’at a feller ken talk words efery day 
’at he don’ know t’e meaning of? Well, it ’s not in 
no dictionary, I expect; t’at ’s t’e trouble— oanless 
mebby a Dutch one. You ain’t got no Dutch dic- 
tionary, I expect, Sam? No. Nor none of yous 
neit’er? No. Well, t’en, we got to git along 
wiss chust t’e head— and sings. Well, I nefer 
sought much about it, Sam—w^at it iss; but of 
course I know w’at it iss. Why, dog it! efery- 
body knows t’at— don’ t’ey now, chentlemen— don’ 
t ’ey ? ” 

Some one hastily gave him an affirmative. 

“Well, t’en, why in sunder did n’t yous tell 
Sam ! ’ ’ cried he, in specious fury, ‘ ‘ ’stid o ’ sending 
him to me, w’ich got a nixy in t’e house? ’T ain’t 


128 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


nice of yons— no, it ain’t. I tell yons to you’ faces, 
an’ you ain’t got t’e dare to take it up !” 

He squared off at the nearest of them, who 
promptly retreated among his fellows. 

‘‘Come on! I ’ll take yous all six toget’er, or one 
at a time. Ha, ha, ha! Git out wiss such a pack 
of noodles! Sam,” he whispered, “t’ey don’ know 
— nossing. Don’t you go home a-beliefing ’at be- 
causs a feller ’s a Dunkard he ’s smart. Parting 
you’ hair in t’e middle ’s got nossing to do wiss 
smartness. T ’ey as dumb, be gosh ! as a muley cow ! 
Yas; I won’t take it back. Sam, t’ey don’t fight— 
t’e church won’t let ’em— t ’at ’s why I dared ’em. 
Well— now you listen, an’ I ’ll tell you w’at it iss. 
T’ese dogged noodles— sajq yere, don’t I know w’at 
a nix-nutz iss ? ” 

They reluctantly answered that he did ; and then, 
as he eyed them fiercely, they added that of course 
he did— of course. 

“Well, talk quick when a body asts yous a sing. 
Well— er— lem me see: a nix-nutz iss— well, dog it, 
a nix-nutz iss— iss— a feller t’at ’s goot for nossing 
—a,— Si— useful; an’— an’— well, t’at ’s right so far, 
ain’t it, noodles?” 

Some one admitted that it was. 

“U-hu,” he retorted ungraciously; “yous could n’t 
’a’ said ot’erways wissout trouble.” He stopped to 
threaten them. “Yas; goot for nossing useful— an’ 
—an’ goot for— for eferysing else! Aha, ha, ha! 
T’at ’s it exsac’ly! Now ain’t it it, chentlemen?” 

They gave him a frank and generous assent. His 
definition had hit the rather difficult mark. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


129 


^^Well, t^en, why don’t you stir you ’self es?. Let- 
ting a man wait yere a whole half a’ hour! Now I 
tell you, Sam,”— he turned to the schoolmaster as 
the only one worthy of his desperate confidence,— 
“my Tress is a nix-nutz; t’at ’s why t’ese fellers air 
so backwards. ’Feard t’ey ’ll git in trouble wiss 
me.” He turned, and shook his fist at them. 
“You dogged cowyards, you! Yas; t’at ’s t’e whole 
sing in a shell-bark— i/as. Tress he ’s what you 
teacher fellers call a — a opject-lesson — not? Chust 
like he wass cut out an’ printed — like t’e newspapers 
has nowadays, be goshens ! A — you know my Tress, 
Sam? T’e boy ’at looks like he wass cut out for a 
girl by mistake — long hair, an’ baby eyes, an’ so on? 
Yas— he ’s come to you two winters a ’ready. Well, 
now, he ’s what t’ese long-haired fellers call, in t’eir 
nigger Dutch, goot-f or-nossing. Aha, ha, ha ! Why, 
he ’s wort’ t’e whole pack of ’em— not?” 

The school-teacher diplomatically waived the 
proffered contention, and said that it seemed very 
strange to him that such a handsome and well-be- 
haved boy should have such an odious reputation. 

“Yas, Sam; t’at ’s t’e way a feller’s feelings gits 
away wiss his facts onct in a while. You ’d rat’er 
not haf Tress a nixy— of course— of course. But he 
chust iss a nixy— out an’ out. Can’t make no fur- 
row no straighter ’n a mule’s hind laeg, if he wass 
to be shot. Now stop a minute, an’ sink of a feller 
’at can’t make no furrow no straighter ’n a mule’s 
hind laeg! You ’fe noticed a mule’s hind laeg a 
many a time, I expect, Sam, ain’t you? You got 
mules up you’ way ? U-hu ; well, it ’s right crooked, 


130 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


ain’t it? Can’t hitch up ole Peter, nuther, wissout 
a-gitting Peter mad enough to chaw his head off— 
t’e crupper round his neck — t’e hames upside down 
— t’e blinds turned backwards, an’ so on— no, he 
can’t. Oach! T’e cows know^s ’at he ’s no goot, an’ 
kick him all ofer t’e barn-yard— slam t’eir tails in 
his face, spill his milk, sling him full of dirt, an’ 
haf yit ot’er fun wiss him too numerous to mention. 
An’ calf es!— oho, ho, ho! Sam, it ’s no way in t’e 
world to tell a nixy like chust wiss a small, little, 
insignifikent cow-calf. Oach! It ’s no mistake ken 
be made if you chust hiss ’em on calfes. Why, I 
expect no angel could git along wiss a calf, an’ stay 
goot friends. Well, Sam, he can’t lead a calf no 
ot’erways but hind part foremost! (7/ientlemen, 
yous all know what t’at iss— leading calfes?” 

They said that they did know what it was to lead 
calves. 

‘‘Oh, you do, do yous? Well, now, how many of 
yous ken lead a calf any ot’erways but hind part 
foremost, hah?” 

The savage old fellow winked to the school-teacher 
in great glee. 

“A whole pack of nixies, if t’ey chust knowed it, 
Sam. W’ere ignorance iss pliss, it ’s foolishness to 
go to school.” 

The young man kindly gave him the correct 
phrase. 

“Yas; sanks. T’at ’s t’e reason I ’m so happy— 
account I ’m so dumb. No man ken be happy an’ 
smart at t ’e same time. Now, you smart, Sam ; but 
you ain’t happy. No. You always hungry for 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


131 


somesing else, Sam. Er— what I wass talking ’bout? 
—oh, calfes! Don’ know enough to lead a calf t’e 
right way! Now it iss a way, Sam, an’ I ’ll tell 
you ; so ’at if you efer haf a calf to lead,— you might 
own a calf some day,— chust turn round an’ go t’e 
ot’er way— aha, ha, ha! No; but honest, Sam, it ’s 
a reg’ler circus wiss Tress— a-trying to do sings he 
can’t, nohow you ken fix it. Oach! He always 
tries hard,— t ’at ’s t’e way wiss a nixy,— but it ain’t 
in him. Funny, Sam, ain’t it — how t’ey air haexed 
an’ witchcraf ted ? ” 

The school-teacher agreed that it was all very diffi- 
cult to him, but said that perhaps Tress was cut out 
for something bookish ; he had noticed, he explained, 
how easy his lessons came to him. 

‘‘Oach! yas, books— expecial poetry books. Why, 
I ketched him onct di-writing poetry— aha, ha, ha! 
Yas, Sam ; I expect you right ; he ought to be a chus- 
tice of t’e peace. T’e on’y sing to make out a nixy 
iss a kind a chentleman. But t’e defil of it iss ’at 
he don’ want to be anysing but a music-teacher. 
Now, Sam, you know you ’self ’at efen a nixy ’s 
too goot to make a music-teacher out— don’t you, 
now ? ’ ’ 

But the younger man said it was a beautiful voca- 
tion for such as were fitted for it, as all the Germanic 
races were, and instanced the singers of an earlier 
day. 

This unexpectedly interested Tress’s father. 

“If our Tress ’d git to be such a music-feller, 
we ’d haf to call him somesing ’at grows round yere, 
hah? How ’d ‘T’e Cat-Bird of t’e Susquehanna,’ or 


132 


BIN NIX-NUTZ 


Yorrick County Pennsylfany Titsy^ strike yous, 
boyss ? ’ ^ 

His audience agreed that either would do. 

But— he ain’t no bird; an’ no matter how much 
you call him a bird, you can’t make no one belief e 
it, durn yous. ’ ’ 

That was true, they admitted as readily— that 
was true. 

“Well— white wass black a minute ago!” 

He regarded them for a moment with aggravated 
reproach, then turned to the schoolmaster again. 

“He can’t sing no more ’n a tree-frog. I meant 
fiddling. He makes me sick wiss his dogged ole 
‘Lauterbach’ all day— sick to dance, aha, ha, ha!” 

Here he swayed from side to side a moment, then 
broke into the old-fashioned waltz to the tune of 
his own whistle. 

“Gosh! it limpers up my ole laegs like a jay-bird 
w’enefer I hear t’at chune— an’ he ken saw it off as 
goot as any nigger. Yit t’at chust profes ’at he ’s 
a nixy: seems like efery one of ’em ’s born wiss a 
fiddle. A— well, Sam, when you write you’ dic- 
tionary, recomember ’at a nix-nutz iss goot for nos- 
sing useful, an’ goot for eferysing else. An’— Sam, 
put my Tress’s pictur’ in, an’ write under, ‘Ein 
Nix-Nutz’— aha, ha, ha! Ja— 

^‘Im Lauterbach hav’ ich mei’ strum^ ferlore^— 

“Well— SO farrywell, boyss; farrywell!” 

A few more bars of the waltz floated back to them, 
and the breezy old fellow was out of sight and 
hearing. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


133 


II 

THE BAD FIDDLE OP THE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING 

Op course Tress had a fiddle, as every other good- 
for-nothing has had. And it was this maligned in- 
strument which brought him and Betsy Liebhart 
together, and then brought about the momentous 
social performance of “seeing her home.” 

Betsy had vainly “noticed” Tress since, as a very 
small boy with whitish hair and rollicking ways, he 
had taken captive her infant fancy. And though 
he responded but indifferently to such wooing as a 
little girl can make, she remained none the less his 
captive. Long afterward, when she heard of what 
had taken place at his birth, she wished to put her 
arms about his neck and tell him— tell him— alas! 
she had become the most bashful of maidens then; 
and there vras, it seemed, no intuition by which Tress 
might learn of this something that she wished so 
desperately to communicate, though it shone in her 
eyes whenever he was near. So he continued, not 
indifferent,— who could be indifferent to so dear a 
thing as little Betsy?— hut only unenlightened, until 
a certain autumnal corn-husking came on. 

This was still more than a tradition in the Happy 
Valley where Tress and Betsy lived, and there were 
to he kissing games, music and dancing, billing and 
cooing, and any other amusement that might go with 
such gay work, such light hearts, and such a half- 
light. 


134 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


So presently, when the barn floor was cleared and 
the revels had begun, they brought Tress out of the 
shadows where he lurked, and set him high on the 
pile of yellow corn, and to his dreaming fiddle the 
dance went on. Betsy declined all invitations to 
dance, that she might stand in a dim nook and fix 
her eyes upon Tress, hoping that after a while, when 
the games began, he might seek her out. But he did 
not, and it grew very lonely. 

‘‘Betsy, you ainT had you’ eyes offn him t’e 
whole efening.” 

It was her best friend and gossip, Polly Engel- 
wein. 

“Yes— I know, Polly,” and Betsy’s eyes were 
very moist; she did not think of making her liking 
for Tress a secret. “Eferybody knows it, I expect, 
but chust him.” 

Polly only laughed. She was fresh from the 
dance. 

“Ain’t he handsome, Polly?” she said. “Polly, 
you nefer seen no one so handsome, I expect?” for 
Polly was worldly wise — in reputation. 

“Betsy, it ain’t eferybody ’at likes such yeller 
hair. I don’t,” she said emphatically, glancing at 
a hovering rustic whose hair was dark. 

“But I do. Oh— if I chust had such!” 

Polly fell upon her and forced her to a seat. 

“Aha, ha, ha!” she screamed, “yourn iss yellerer 

“Too yeller,” sighed Betsy. 

“ ‘As sure as grass grows in this field,’ ” Polly 
chanted with the fiddle, “it ain’t.” 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


136 


‘‘Oh, nobody efer tole me that afore, Polly,’’ she 
burst out in infantile confidence, “we wass kind of 
related when we wass little— an’— an’— slep’ to- 
get’er in t’e trundle-bed— an’— an’ use’ to kiss each 
ot’er— good-night!” She hid her blushing face in 
Polly’s bosom. “I— wish he ’d— kiss me now.^^ 

“Betsy!” said Polly, severely. 

Betsy raised her chidden face. It was a dainty 
mask now: there might be tears or laughter back of 
it. Polly pushed the clustered hair away from the 
forehead, and for a moment studied it fondly. 

“Betsy, you a nice girl,— I don’t know as I efer 
see a nicer one if you look right in t’e eyes,— an’ you 
deserf e a better beau than—” 

“There ain’t none, Polly.” 

“Oach! Git out! It ’s full of ’em. I ken git 
you a dozend here to-night. I— I got my eye on 
one now!” she whispered abandonedly. 

“No, Polly; no,” said Betsy, stealing a glance at 
Tress in turn. 

“Chust go on! Next you ’ll be so deep in lofe 
wiss Tress Kitzmiller you ken nefer git out.” 

“I— I ’m that way now, I expect,” said Betsy. 

“I ’m su ’prised at you, Betsy— yes, an’ ashamed !” 

“Ashamed!” repeated Betsy. “I ’m glad.” 

It was sheer bravado. 

“ You know Tvell enough he ’s nix-nutzich. ” 

“Yes— an’ I don’t keer!” she flashed. 

Then, as if this were too fearful a defiance even 
for one as love-lorn as she, she added repentantly : 

“Polly, I ’m his only friend; an’— an’— Polly— I 
— I ’m afraid I lofe him.” 


136 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


Polly eyes grew moist; that was another thing, a 
self-confessed certainty. 

‘‘ Well, I ’m sorry I said anysing.^’ 

She was at that moment claimed for the dance by 
the hovering rustic, but she would not leave the piti- 
ful little figure comfortless. 

“Mebby being lofed ’ll cure him, Betsy,” she 
whispered, as she was whirled olf. “I— I ’fe heerd 
so.” 


And thus for once at least did Polly justify her ^ 
stimulating name— Angel- Wine. 

With this brave cheer in her simple heart Betsy 
turned again to Tress’s music. Inevitably her eyes 
sought his face, and now she glowed upon him in a 
way that even doubting Tress could not wholly mis- 
take; and by some happy chance he looked down 
upon her. She blushed an instant at his detection 
of her, but then her face grew all the brighter— 
which was very bright indeed. And so, when it 
came to going home, and Tress somehow found her 
hovering at hand and still inviting him with that 
wistful smile, he very gently took his place at her 
side. 

Betsy looked tremblingly backward to see if her 
heart had at last told her aright,— for these shy gal- 
lants always approach from the rear,— and seeing 
that it had, she straightway surrendered herself with 
a joy all too apparent. But Tress was utterly be- 
reft of the few Avords of ceremony Avhich every rus- 
tic lays up for such an occasion. He knew that 
girls Avere taught to shun him; yet here was the 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


137 


prettiest one in all the township preferring him, 
sighing happily, looking np in a way to distract 
him. 

But he did manage to say that it was a nice even- 
ing, at which Betsy only blushed. Then, that he 
might not misinterpret her silence, she hastened to 
take his arm, for that was the customary way of 
letting one know that one ’s company was acceptable ; 
and that he might know just how acceptable his was, 
she drew it close under her fluttering heart, and ever 
closer and closer as they walked. 

Tress had never before seen any one home in this 
formal way, so he said apologetically : 

Betsy, if I don’t know how to behafe, you ken 
tell me so, an’ I ’ll go— ’way.” And he gulped 
aridly upon the last word. 

‘‘Yes,” said Betsy, breathlessly; but she tightened 
her hold on his arm. 

Tress tried manfully to break the silence which 
followed : 

“I like moonlight nights; don’t you?” 

“It ’s t’e ivver gehnde’,”^ Betsy suggested with 
subtle irrelevance. 

“Yes,” said Tress, gladly; “mebby sings ’ll make 
a change now.” 

Betsy pressed his arm fervently. Everything was 
to date from this night for her. It was her flrst 
olympiad. 

Tress plunged perspiringly into another silence. 

“You did n’t hafe no nice time to-night, Betsy?” 

1 The moon in its ascent of the constellation Cancer, a for- 
tunate time for any undertaking. 


138 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


‘‘I nefer had no nicer time!’^ 

“But— you did n’t dance?” 

“No.” 

“An’— an’ ”— his voice faltered a little— “you 
did n’t play no games?” 

“No.” 

“Nor— nor git kissed?” 

It took Betsy a long time to muster sufficient cour- 
age for her answer. It seemed criminal not to be 
kissed at' a husking. She understood that a strong 
defense was necessary. 

“N-no— account the music. I liked it so— an’ I— 
I—” And one must both have seen her face and 
heard her voice to guess at the meaning of this. 

But even in that disjected phrase each had a 
prodigious something to think of: she that all the 
evening he had “noticed” her, projecting thence a 
beautiful, unobtrusive surveillance through the years 
in which she had thought him indifferent; he to 
wonder with addled head whether she had not 
danced because she wished to enjoy his music the 
more, or, at last, in the cruel doubt of everything 
good that came to him, whether it was not fine 
enough to dance to, and her pretty little unfinished 
phrase all irony— irony, indeed, from Betsy! But 
he had heard only her palpitating little voice when 
he should also have seen her face. 

He made his adieus bravely and cheerily. 

“Well— so goot night, Betsy. Schlafe’ sie wohl.” 

“Well— so goot night. Tress. Tress— bring you’ 
fiddle if— if you come to see me— any— time.” 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


139 


Tress walked home in the middle of the road, pon- 
dering this cunning invitation; and when at last 
he thought he understood it, he struck gaily into 
his favorite “Lauterhach.’’ And Betsy, at her win- 
dow, heard it, and crept guiltily and happily to bed. 

It was therefore a very painful surprise for Betsy, 
when next they met, to find Tress shying off from 
her as if he repented everything that had happened 
on that walk home. It was the question of what 
she had meant about* his music. When it took its 
worst phase he would avoid her; when it took its 
best he would go to her with his fiddle, as she had 
desired. But he was dishearteningly uncertain. 

That this might end, Betsy determined, one sleep- 
less night in bed, that she would bravely let him 
know she loved him. 

‘‘My hair iss yellerer ’n hisn,’’ she said in the 
morning, as she looked in the glass, and fiung it up- 
ward in a shining spray. Then she tossed her head 
in a way quite foreign to her. “He ’s got to say 
he likes me. Yit— no, no, no!” That seemed odi- 
ously aggressive. ‘ ‘ I know what : I ’ll make myself 
chust as pooty as efer I ken ; an’ if I git a chance— ” 

She did make herself pretty in a very simple and 
charming way— with a ribbon in her hair and a 
dainty white apron at her waist. 

And the opportunity came. While they sat on 
the broad porch, in the moonlight, among the holly- 
hocks, Tress took courage to continue the conversa- 
tion they had begun nearly two years before : 

“It wass a nice night, wass n’t it, Betsy?” 

She knew just what night he meant. 


140 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


‘‘The nicest one I efer seen/^ she answered softly, 
moving toward him. 

“ ’Most as moonlight as to-night.” 

“Oh, more! I could see right in you’ eyes.” 

‘ ‘ N ow, Betsy I Honest ? ’ ’ 

She nodded saucily, and moved a little closer. 

“Could n’t you see in mine?” 

“You would n’t ’a’ let me.” 

“You did n’t ast— you did n’t— ” 

“Lem me now?” 

She turned up her face. She was quite close to 
him now, but he moved a little nearer— a fraction 
of an inch, perhaps. 

“Blue!-oh, like the sky!” 

Tress had her face between his hands, and was 
trembling violently. 

“Betsy— I— I ’d like to— kiss you!” 

She said not a word. And she could get no closer. 

“Betsy-” 

She puckered up her lips— and the damage was 
done. No one could have misunderstood or with- 
stood that. 

Afterward he was as brave as a lion. 

“Betsy?” he whispered. 

“What?” she whispered back. 

“I could feel you’ heart beat!” 

“Oh!” Betsy covered her face. 

Tress’s courage grew to bravado; she was quite 
off guard, and he slipped his arm around her waist, 
looking away while he did it. 

To his surprise, he was not repulsed ; instead, her 
head drooped very slowly toward him till it rested 
on his shoulder. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


141 


‘‘Oh, Betsy!’’ 

“Oh, Tress!” 

That was all for a long time. Tress had never 
dreamed of such ecstasy. Betsy had her heart’s 
desire. 

“Betsy, I ’ll nefer forgit that night,” said he. 

“I ’ll nefer forgit this one, ’ ’ said she. 

Tress got back to his problem presently. 

“You said you liked the music that night.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yit you did n’t dance— nor play no games— nor 
git kissed ? ’ ’ 

“No.” 

“For why, Betsy— for why, liebst’?” 

“Oh!”— she threw up her face, full of tears and 
joy at once — “becauss — becauss you did n’t ast me 
—an’— an’ I— I did n’t ivant to be ast— nor kissed 
—by no one else.” 

Then she escaped and ran into the house. 

Tress tried to sing on his way home that night, 
and it was not entirely in vain. 

“It ’s funny, I nefer knowed she was so pooty 
tell I looked in her face to-night. I use’ n’t to like 
no such taffy hair— account I got such a lot of it 
myself, I expect. But it ’s nice on her— ’most like 
angels ’ I ’f e seen painted. ’ ’ 

This was his only hyperbole. 

“Mebby it ’s the moonlight?” 

This reflection lasted a mile. Then he gal- 
lantly decided that the moon had nothing to do 
with it. 

“Some day I ’m a-go’n’ to marry her! Yessir!” 

This lasted all the way home and well into the 


142 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


next day, when he intimated it to his father, dealing 
rather with the state of Betsy ^s affection than his 
own. 

‘ ‘ Ha, ha, ha ! ” roared the old man. ‘ ‘ Tress, she ^s 
in lofe wiss you; she wants to marry you, I bet a 
cow. An’ she T1 do it if you don’t look out. A’ 
innocent feller like you, Tress, don’t stand no chance 
whatefer. Women air always up to some gosh- 
hanged defilishness, exspecial if t’ey got yeller hair. 
I know ’em like t’e dictionary! Oh, I ain’t as big 
a fool as I look. Why— you’ mammy. Tress— she 
was c-razy after me, an’ red-headed yit! I chust 
married her to git red a breach-of-promise suit. 
Yas! You look skeered ’bout t’at. Tress? So! 
Well, it ’s a little bit a lie. She would n’t ’a’ sued 
me; she knowed I wass n’t wort’ no fi ’-penny bit 
wissout my clothes. For why you look at me in t’at 
funny kind a way? You would n’t sink it of me, 
account I ain’t pooty now, hah? So! Well, when 
I look in t’e glass I got to acknowledge ’at I ain’t. 
But when I set up wiss you’ mammy I wass a’ ot’er- 
guess kind a looking feller: mostly clothes an’ musk 
—brass coat an’ blue buttons on, wiss a swaller-tail 
on behint, an’ a large ruffle out in front; stof e-pipe 
on one end of me, an’ calf-skin boots on t’e ot’er— 
use’ to screech so ’at people sought it wass pig-stick- 
ing time. Poor mammy! she died when you wass 
born— t’ey skeered her to deaf.” 

Tress knew what he meant. He took off his old 
straw hat, and toyed with it irresolutely; and when 
he at last put his thought into words, hope and fear 
were pathetically mingled. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


143 


I— expect you would n’t like it— mebby— if me 
an’— Betsy— wass to git— married— sometime?” 

‘‘Married!” his father shouted. “Oho, ho, ho! 
Oh— you joking. Tress— not?” 

Then, as he saw how Tress’s face fell, something 
inexpressibly gentle came into his own. 

“Er— wass you r’a’ly sinking ’bout gitting mar- 
ried, Tress— Tressy?” he asked softly. 

“Yes, sir, we— wass.” 

“I did n’t know it, Tressy; I did n’t know it, else 
I would n’t ’a’ spoke so. It ’s a ser’ous sing. You 
— you ain’t talked nossing ’bout it yit, I expect?” 

His voice was kind and pitiful, and there was a 
queer effect of moisture at his eyes. 

“No, not— yit.” 

“I ’m glad. I ’m afeard it won’t do. Tress.” 

Tress shrank guiltily together. They were in the 
field, and the old man was seated on his plow. He 
drew Tress between his knees, and caressingly 
pushed his hair back. 

“No, no. Tress; put it out you’ head. Anyhow, 
you chust a little boy yit. I promised t’e mammy. 
I ’ll keep you wissout a cent to pay. Tress, as long 
as you life; an’ when I die, which won’t be so long 
no more,— not so long,— you git what ’s left of t’e 
ole farm. But we must stay toget’er. Tress; you 
all I got, an’ I all you got.” 

Tress was silent, and the old man, thinking the 
worst of his task over, went on more lightly: 

“Tress— could n’t make no lifing, an’ Betsy ’s 
a orphen wiss nossing to expect. You would n’t let 
her aim you’ keep?” 


144 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


Yet this was the cunningest argument he could 
have used; for Tress could not endure the thought 
of eating his bread in the sweat of a woman ’s brow. 
Still he added in a palliative way : 

‘‘It ^s another reason, but—” 

‘ ‘ I know it, ^ ’ said Tress. ‘ ‘ I got enough reasons. ’ * 

“Er— who tole you?” 

“Eferybody!” 

“T’ey ought n’t ’a’ tole you. Yit— if you know— 
Some must be born nix-nutzich; it ’s a kind of ac- 
commodation to t’e Ole Boy an’ t’e haexerei.^ We 
wass sorry— eferybody wass— it hit you. But I ken 
keep you, if you don’t bring a wife an’ a whole pack 
of little nixies along. A little farm wiss a big mor’- 
gige on top won’t stand it. Put it out you’ head. 
Tress; you chust a little boy, anyhow— not so?” 

It was all very gentle, but very decided. Both 
understood that. 

“I expect so. I ’m sorry I said anysing about 
it, ’ ’ Tress murmured. 

As he went chokingly away, the old man’s voice 
followed him with its last cruel blow— crueler than 
he knew ; crueler than he meant. 

“Anyhow, Tress, no nixy ought to git married, 
account it ’s ketching— t’e wife an’ ehildern ’d git 
it sure as a gun. An’ t’at ’d be bad— mighty bad 
a-always gitting blamed for it. Oach! I know how 
it iss wiss women— all right at first, an’ t’ey ’d go 
srough fire for you. But t’at wears off after while; 
an’ t’en!— why, t’ey ken blame you wiss chust t’e 
eyes!” 


1 The devil and the witches. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


145 


And this was the end of Tress’s first dream. It 
had been very sweet, but— the end had come. He 
avoided hapless little Betsy from that day forth. 

It was not easy to meet day by day her plaintive, 
questioning eyes; but in time it became a heroism 
with him. He tried to make his final renunciation 
of her appear in his gentle face when they met ; but 
it only made her nostrils quiver the more, and her 
breath to come in quicker gasps, for Tress’s face did 
not speak his mind. 

But suffering made the lonely little girl brave; 
and one day she timidly laid her hand on his arm as 
he was about to pass her. As he turned almost 
fiercely toward her she had the sudden fear of a 
blow, and quickly withdrew her hand. But there 
was that in her lovely eyes which unmade Tress’s 
resolution. He stopped, and Betsy touched his arm 
again. 

“What I done. Tress— oh, what I done?” 

But then, with her dainty, suffering face upraised 
to his, he remembered those last words of his father, 
and turned from her and away as if a lash fell at 
each step. Betsy faltered toward him, and then on 
aimlessly up the hill; while he hurried home, and 
made wild errands to the barn, the corn-crib, and 
the eider-presses— he could not remember for what. 
Finally he crouched behind the board fence of the 
yard, and saw Betsy go by; and this, he knew, was 
his purpose. She had her handkerchief to her eyes, 
and was sobbing. Once, as if she was aware that he 
was there, she looked up. It was a glance that made 
Tress hold his breath, and when she was gone he 


10 


146 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


stole from his place with a heart hardened against 
the world that had put such a cruel necessity upon 
him. 

His father was coming into the yard, and they 
met at the gate. He too had seen Betsy crying, and 
now he saw with a vague intelligence Tress’s set 
face. 

‘‘Why, Tress,” he said gently, “iss it as bad as 
t’at?” 

“Yes.'” answered Tress, savagely, turning his 
back upon him. 

“Oh, gosh a’mighty!” 

He twisted and untwisted his gnarled fingers with- 
out moving from the spot. Finally he went into the 
stall of the cow Juke, of whom he sometimes took 
counsel. 

“Juke,” he said, “what shell I do? Tress an’ 
me ’s had a fuss. We never had no fuss afore. I 
dunno what to do.” 

The old cow turned and licked his hand. 

“You right. Juke,” he said very humbly, inter- 
preting the caress according to his mood. “I ’ll go 
an’ ast his parton. I done wrong— if he is chust 
a boy. ’ ’ 

He did this, and Tress received it with a calm, 
manful indifference that staggered him. And after- 
ward not a day passed but he made some humble, 
clumsy attempt to establish their former intimacy. 
It was useless. Tress was firm in maintaining some 
secret status he had fixed which disestablished their 
old camaraderie and changed him from boy to 
man. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


147 


III 

THE TAKING OFF (AND ON AGAIN) OF BETSY 

So three years went by. Betsy had faded slowly 
out of sight— almost of memory— of all but Tress; 
and he only knew, vaguely, at last, that she could 
not leave her bed, and that the end might come at 
any moment. To his furtive inquiries the people 
answered that she had the opp-nehmeV while the 
doctor said only a little less understandingly that it 
was anemia. But Betsy, when she was told, smiled 
at both these diagnoses in a wan, angelic way— they 
were so far wrong! 

‘‘I know what ’s the matter wiss me,” she said, 
with another smile; ‘‘an’ if— if Tress wants to 
know—” Her wistful eyes completed the thought. 

So one day they brought him, like a culprit, to 
her bedside. 

It was a beautiful day of the new spring, and 
through the opened window came the faint per- 
fume of wild violets from the meadow beyond. She 
lay there in the tall white bed, in the low-ceiled 
room, comparable with nothing Tress’s fancy held 
but those angels he had seen painted. The sweet 
morning sun was in her face, and her great blue 
eyes were turned toward the door. And when he 
came, lo! she did not revile him; she smiled upon 
him as on that evening at the barn. Then, without 


1 Literally, “the taking off.” 


148 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


fear, she put out her wasted little hand and drew 
him to the bed. She was quite gay. 

“They made me pooty for you, Tress,’’ she said 
fondly, pointing to the ribbon which was woven into 
her hair, and the puffed sleeves of her night-dress. 

Tress was silent with a kind of terror, and she 
fondled his hand, fitting her own small one within 
it presently, and letting it remain there. 

“Tress,” she whispered softly, as she nestled to 
him, “ 1/014 know what ’s the matter wiss me, don’t 
you ? ’ ’ 

“Yes; you— sick,” he answered huskily. 

She looked up with a bright smile. He was dis- 
tractedly smoothing the counterpane; his face was 
wet with tears. 

“Oh, Tress,” she said archly, “can’t you guess 
better ’n t’at?” 

There was something in his throat; he shook his 
head. 

“Poor Tress! poor Tress! You crying for me? 
T ’en I must tell you— yes. ’ ’ 

But she did not immediately. Instead she looked 
at him a long while with that strange, arch smile on 
her face, inviting a question. Then she drew him 
down till his cheek touched her own. 

“Tress, my heart ’s broke,” she said quite simply. 

As if she had accused him, he let his head droop 
forward, and groaned. 

“Oh!” she said with soft remorse, “does it hurt 
you? I don’t want to— I don’t want to. Tress. 
Chust— I— I ’m gro’n’ to die. Tress, an’ I wanted to 
tell you— I wanted to tell you myself— I sought it 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


149 


would be nice for you to sink ’bout ef— efterwerds. 
I could tell you any sing— now . She paused an in- 
stant, while a pretty flush came to her pale face. 
Then she went on in whispers: Ain’t it anysing— 
you ’d like— to— ast me— Tress— before— ” But he 
was shrinking away from her. ^‘Oh, forgife me, 
Tress! I could n’t help it! Oh, forgife me— for- 
gife me— Tress— 

The daring word was in her eyes as well as on her 
lips begging for that which he could give, and 
he alone. Something within him answered— some- 
thing quite beyond his control. He wrapped her 
strongly in his arms, and swept her face with gusty 
kisses. 

‘‘My God ! I lofe you— you know I lofe you !— bet- 
ter ’n heaf en ! ’ ’ 

Betsy panted wildly in his arms. 

“Chust— account— account I ’m go’n’ to die. 
Tress?” 

Though he hurt her, she crept closer to him, and 
her voice was wondrous. 

“Tress, is it pity— chust pity?” 

“No; it is lofe,” he said flercely. “It has been 
all my life— all my life; chust—” he beat the air 
with one hand, as if driving some obtrusive thing 
back— “you shell marry me!” 

“Oh, Tress!” she said. “If you lofe me— I don’t 
want to die. Hold me fast, so I life— Tress !” 

“Die ! You got to help me to show ’em ’at I ain’t 
—that. You got to!” 

“Oh, Tress! if it ’s all so— if you ’ll always be 
this a- way to me— I will; I think I ken.” 


150 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


IV 

A KIND OF STUFF CALLED LOVE 

Timolian Althoff lived somewhere within the edge 
of the Barrens, a wild stretch of alternate hill and 
swamp-land yielding grudgingly only chincapins 
and blackberries. Out of these he made a’ scant 
summer living, leaving the winter’s necessities a 
mystery to all but those who believed it possible for 
him to hibernate; and there were such. Besides, 
Althoff lived on terms of the closest intimacy with 
the mystics who now and then came to inhabit the 
Barrens, and to them such a thing as food wsis be- 
lieved to be a mere bagatelle. From the first fall of 
snow to the last thaw his place at the store was va- 
cant. Then, pale, emaciated, ragged, and slinking, 
he would appear, and renew his intercourse, with a 
grisly air of having been there yesterday, and the 
day before, and the day before that, in some invisi- 
ble, attenuated, way. But no one had ever ques- 
tioned Althoff of his doings, except in the most indi- 
rect way. To do so would have been to invite a 
peculiar specie^ of disaster. 

As for Althoff himself, when he appeared at the 
store in the spring he was unquestionably human, 
for he was always ravenously hungry— and thirsty. 
Yet there was a settled conviction there that the 
Schwartz-Frau had obtained power from the devil 
to change her hireling from body to spirit, and from 
spirit to body again, at will. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


161 


It was somewhere in the interior of the Barrens 
that this chief of the mystics held her empire. 
Sometimes— usually in winter, when the winds were 
high— there was said to be with her an innumerable 
company of uncanny subjects; then there was wild 
revelry there, and even the most devoted patrons of 
the black art gave the place a wide berth. Then the 
Schwartz-Prau was understood to relax her unholy 
care of the neighborhood for these Walpurgis orgies, 
and the only thing that stood between the people 
and the riotous witches was this beggarly, clay- 
faced Timolian Althoft', whom she had disembodied 
and made her vice-regent. 

But the winds would cease, the haexerei return to 
the upper air, Althoff to the store, and by these one 
might know that the mystic was again in control of 
the sources of good and evil, and ready to serve all 
who might seek her. 

And though no one had yet been found to confess 
that he had been there, a well-indicated path led 
from the public road to the mystic’s cabin. This 
secrecy was partly due to the fact that the rarest 
time to seek the Schwartz-Prau was in the dark of 
the moon, when the black unner-gehnde ’ ^ held con- 
trol. No known necessity was dire enough to induce 
any one to travel this path when the sun shone or 
the moon was prying under the trees; if the rain 
fell and the thunder roared and the lightning 
flashed, all the better. 

1 The moon in its descent of the constellation Cancer, a time 
of evil influence. 


152 


Em NIX-NUTZ 


They came to her for all things; but oftenest to 
weave, of the mysterious things of earth and heaven 
and hell, the “Branch.”^ 

By this they hoped to accomplish and prevent 
everything that is worth accomplishing and prevent- 
ing, reaching from life to death, from riches to pov- 
erty, from health to sickness; and, finally, to com- 
mand that cunning beggar. Love. 

On the 20th of April, 18—, as the company at the 
store was discussing the great risk the store-keeper 
ran in whitewashing his stove so early in the season, 
Timolian Althotf entered. 

The loafers, as was their wont, gave him a diplo- 
matic if rather ironical welcome. 

‘ AVell, Timolius, out you^ hole onct more?” 

‘‘Thawed out aTeady, Timolius?” 

“Airly, ain’t it?” 

“T’e Black Woman onchain you a ’ready?” 

“Got soul an’ body toget’er ag’in?” 

“Ain’t some ot’er feller by mistake, hah?” 

“Timolius, how you tore you’ britches so?” 

Timolian went straight to the cracker-drawer, and 
gave them no attention till some one proposed a 
drink of apple-jack. Then he looked anxiously up. 
It had been suggested by young Harman, the jus- 
tice’s son, who was not a Dunkard, and toward 
whom Althotf edge^l his way They joined in a gen- 
erous libation, and Althotf returned to the cracker- 
drawer, smiling his intense satisfaction, but saying 
nothing till the apple-jack had done its perfect work. 
lA spell or charm worked by incantation. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


153 


Then he looked round upon the company with a 
brilliant and incautious eye. 

“Huh! what yous know ’pout t’e ole black defil?” 

Young Harman winked to them for a clear field. 

“Nossing, Timolius; nossing,” he answered en- 
couragingly. 

“Well, I do,” and the berry-picker leered at him. 

Harman cunningly asked him to have more apple- 
jack. 

“I nefer knowed it to go to t’e spot so.” Althoff 
smiled joyously, and Harman agreed with him. 

“You ain’t no Dunkard, air you? I won’t tell 
no damn Dunkard nossing.” 

But it had to be recalled to him. 

“Oach, yas! Say, who d’ you sink goes t’ere 
reg’ler now?” 

The young justice said insidiously that he did 
not know. 

Althoif had again forgotten him for the irresist- 
ible cracker-drawer. This new eccentricity of mem- 
ory was most aggravating. Harman was already 
looking toward the end of the counter where the 
demijohn was hidden when the proprietor peremp- 
torily pushed the cracker-drawer shut with his foot. 
Althoff in pained and indignant silence reeled out 
of the store. 

The loafers eyed one another in dismay. 

Young Harman started for the door. 

“I ’ll break his neck off if he don’t tell,” he 
threatened ominously. 

But they would not permit this wanton homicide. 
Besides, if he was what they suspected him of being, 


164 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


his neck could not be broken off, and it would be 
very dangerous to try, they argued. 

“I ’m to find out,” insisted Harman. He 

went to the door and shouted in his great voice : 

‘‘Yere!” 

Then he retreated to a safe place behind the 
counter. 

A moment afterward Althoff, trembling in every 
limb, put his head in at the door. 

‘ ‘ Tress Kitzmiller ! ” he announced, and vanished. 

‘‘Chust what I sought,” said Harman, trium- 
phantly. “He ’s got power of t’e Black Woman 
and haexed her.” 

Presently some one ventured a halting question : 

“Haexed who?” 

^ ‘ Her ! ^ ’ said Harman. 

“You don’ r’a’ly sink he ’s witchcrafted— no- 
body ? ’ ’ 

^^Yasj Betsy Liebhart! An’ he wants to branch 
t’e nix-nutzich away so ’s she ’ll marry him.” 

“It can’t be done! No, sir; not oanless God 
A ’mighty works a miracle.” It was a sad-eyed 
lounger— theretofore unheard— who spoke. 

“Can’t, can’t it?” asked a dogged-looking new- 
comer. “You durn young foo-el! that ’s all you 
know. Anysing ken be done. She don’ need no 
God A ’mighty to work her kind o’ miracles. She 
wants t’e ot’er feller— you hear? Blood an’ t’e 
defil ken do ’most anysing. ’ ’ He made a mysterious 
motion of cutting crosses on his breast, and spoke 
with reckless conviction. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


166 


‘‘Oh, you been t’ere too?’^ said Harman, with a 
half shudder. 

“I been t^ere,” answered the other, grimly. 
“Mebby you notice t’e lightning struck Bill Blin- 
singer’s barn, ha?” 

‘ ‘ ’Sh-h-h ! ’ ’ whispered the young man, listening. 

“ T ’e defil ! I ain ’t af eard of nossing no more. I 
seen him pull hair out between the horns of his bull 
an^ feed it to mine. Well, I ain’t got no bull no 
more, but he ’s got to build a new barn! He tried 
to spell-bind me, but I carry words ag’in’ it. Tried 
to shoot me, an’ t’e black she-defil witchcrafted his 
gun— tied one his bullet-patches on a willer-limb an’ 
hung it in a riffle so his gun shakes t’at a- way all 
t’e time— oh !— ” 

^^’Sh-h-h-hr^ 

Harman pointed anxiously to the door, where 
Tress’s father was entering. 

“Goshens! you fellers look as solemn as a pa ’cel 
of possums up a gum-tree of a cold winter’s night, 
an’ a feller down below wiss a gun yit. Anybody 
dead, hah?” 

They were silent with the guilty sense of having 
contributed to some intrigue of the young justice 
involving him. The old man looked at them quizzi- 
cally a moment, then a perceptible twinkle came to 
his eye. 

“Goshens! what faces yous got on! You ken 
measure ’em by t’e yard. T’e barber in town ’d 
charge yous fifteen cents apiece to shafe ’em, an’ 
lose money on t’e job. Now would n’t yous look 


156 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


funny if you all git shafed onct— if t^e church ’d 
raahe yous? Aha, ha, ha! Y-you ’d nefer know 
each ot^er in t’e world— nefer! An^ you’ britches 
iss bow-leggeder ’n efer!— like t’ey wass cut wiss a 
circ’ler saw. Boyss, you been in some mitschief 
anot’er— what iss it? Secert, hah? Well, I ’ll tell 
yous anot’er, you keep ’em so goot— a funny one. 
Somesing ’s got to be done to shorten you’ counte- 
nances. You ’ll tramp on you’ chin- whiskers after 
w’ile— i/as. Well, sence it ain’t no chance for a 
■funerel, Avhat do yous say to a— a Avedding, hah?” 
and now he suddenly faced about and addressed the 
young justice. 

A wedding would be just the thing, the others 
said innocently. 

“Well, how many of yous ready to git married?” 

This required only a smile of deprecation. 

“Somebody ’s chust got to, an’ if none of yous 
air ready I ’ll make my Tress. I ’m chust sick for 
—a little—” He broke into his favorite waltz. 
“Say, boyss; come ofer to t’e house to-morrer at 
about half-a-past eight a. m., an’ see what ’ll happen. 
An’ if any of yous sees ole preacher Kellermann, 
ketch a holt an’ bring him along. Tell him ’at if 
eferysing turns out right he ’ll git a nice shoat wiss 
a pink ribbon round his neck— t’e shoat ’s neck. If 
he Avants to know what ’s up, tell him it ’s somesing 
like a funerel going on— chust wissout no corpse— 
aha, ha, ha! Look a-yere! Come ofer anyhow; an’ 
if Tress does git away from us we ’ll haf some cider, 
an’ when it ain’t no preachers about no more a 
little apple-jack. Cider for t’e fellers wiss t’e bow- 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


157 


legged britches, an’ apple-jack for t’e fellers ’at 
don’ wear no suspenders, Harman. Well, don’t fer- 
git; come you ’self es, an’ infite eferybody ’at trinks 
eit’er cider or apple-jack. I trink bose. An’— say, 
chust keep a’ eye on Tress, so ’s he don’ git away.” 

He went hurriedly to the door, as if to go; then, 
apparently upon a sudden thought, returned, and 
seated himself with great deliberation. He let his 
eyes rest upon each, as if he would seriously read 
their thoughts. Then he spoke with a great assump- 
tion of regret: 

‘‘A— boyss, it chust seems by t’e size of you’ faces 
’at you excusing me of yoking my nix-nutzich Tress 
wiss t’e likeliest girl in t’e State of Pennsylfany. 
Well, it ain’t so; I ain’t guilty; I tried to stop it, 
but she ’s as stubborn as seferal mules. An’ she ’s 
chust as goot as new, an’ her mind seems stronger ’n 
it efer wass, exspecial on t’e supject of my Tress. 
She says Tress done it all. Wonderful! I like to 
know what for kind a mediteine he gev’ her t’at time 
he went to see her? You fellers don’ know neit’er, 
I expect?” 

They confessed that they did not. 

“No; so I sought. Yous efer heerd ’bout a kind 
a stuff t t’ey Q,dl\—lofef You git it at t’e pot’ecary 
shop, I sink— ’bout fife cents a bottle ; looks kind a 
white like warter, an’ grows on a tree in t’e woods. 
No? Well, it ’s a new sing, I expect, an’ you ain’t 
come acrosst it yit. My— my— my, but it ’s power- 
ful ! It ain’t our fault ; it ’s hern. Mebby she ’s yit 
oander t’e influence of t’e mediteine. An’ Tress— I 
got to confess ’at he ’s resigned to his fate. But 


168 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


mebby some of yous ’d be willing to safe him by 
marrying Betsy? Yit t’e worst of it iss ^at she 
won’t haf none of yous— I ast her; an’ it must be 
two to such a contract; ain’t so, Harman?” 

Harman’s knowledge of the law having been ap- 
pealed to, he gave a hostile assent to this. 

^^Yas; so I sought, so I sought. Oach! I tole her 
right in her face ’at I could n’t see what she wanted 
wiss no such nixy like my Tress— an’ when she could 
git a nice feller I knowed of chust c-razy after her. 
Well, she laughed right back in my face. It made 
me mad, so it did; an’ I says right out, says I: ‘You 
dogged little lunatic, it ainH no nicer feller ’n Har- 
bach Harman; an’—’ ” 

The young man strode out, promising him some- 
thing unpleasant if he would kindly follow him 
and waive the difference in their ages. The gen- 
tle Dunkards now remembered that Harman had 
long been a troublesome suitor for the hand of little 
Betsy. 

“Now I done it ag’in, I expect. Well, I can’t 
help it if t’e bird in t’e bush sets right down on t’e 
rolling stone, an’ won’t git away; ken I, boyss? No. 
Well, come ofer an’ make merry wiss t’e fattened 
calfes ; 

<< ( weib wein un’ g’sang 
Der bleib’ norr sei’ lebenslang.^ 

Come one, come all. Anyhow, I expect Harman 
won’t come now. Ai, ai, ai! It ’s good I ’m a’ ole 
man, else I ’d be licked a ’ready.” He went sorrow- 
fully out. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


159 


V 

‘‘the madonna of the wash-tub’^ 

Betsy was at the wash-tub, and that was a sight 
worth one’s while. With her sleeves rolled up from 
her pretty pink-and-white arms, disclosing at the 
top the soft whiteness of some mysterious undergar- 
ment, an old, soft kerchief of yellow confining her 
wilful hair, her skirts tucked up— away above her 
trim ankles, she never looked prettier than just this 
way, dipping into the cloud of white suds, holding 
a piece of clothing up to the light, bending and 
straightening with exquisite and unconscious grace. 
Then, too, she sang at her work: 

“A little ship was on the sea — 

It was a pretty sight ; 

It sailed along so pleasantly. 

And all was calm and bright—” 

keeping time on the wash-board. 

With little Betsy one would not have thought to 
call the work menial ; one would have had, rather, a 
conviction that there may be something charming 
about the homeliest labor. Of course Betsy had her 
moments of aberration, when she would take the 
pins out of her skirts, and tuck under her belt a 
starched handkerchief, and so be uncomfortably 
“dressed up.” But she was always glad to get back 
to the tub, or to her baking or her butter-making— 
as you would have been, had you been there to see 


160 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


her. And at these again, I promise you there is 
nothing daintier in Dresden ware. 

And now there was a reason for her blooming 
roundness that made her doubly attractive to those 
who had the good fortune to know it; but, unhap- 
pily, even Betsy had her caprices, and Tress was not 
of these. 

One may not tell exactly why it was that she 
dropped a certain small garment back into the tub 
at his sudden approach, and then gave a little gasp, 
and put her hand up to her heart in that way, and, 
after all, laughed long and merrily, then ended by 
blushing like a rose— one may not tell. But Tress 
knew that she looked all the lovelier for it, and he 
called her something that brought the happy tears 
to her eyes. Still she bent over her tub. Quite by 
accident she brought up one of his shirts. 

‘ ‘ Tress, what air these, anyhow ? ’ ’ 

She pointed out three crosses rudely shaped in 
blood on the inside of the bosom. 

‘‘Oach!” he answered, with all the indefinable evi- 
dences of guilt. “Lem me see— chust scratches, I 
expect. ’ ’ 

“But, Tress, persisted Betsy, without a parti- 
cle of suspicion, “I ’fe washed ’em out so often 
lately. ’ ’ 

“ Yes ; that ’s when I wass a-cutting down t’e wild 
blackberry bushes.” 

To Betsy’s surprise, he kissed her and hastened 
away, instead of lingering till he was driven off. 
She turned to her work as if it had all been a feint. 

“I nefer saw no one so— so— dwmh.'” 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


161 


VI 

A LEOPARD WITHOUT HIS SPOTS 

Perhaps Tress’s father can best tell how the boy 
won a fame for thrift that was above reproach. At 
all events, he will do him greater honor in the telling 
than anybody else possibly could; for he will, as is 
his wont, deal in hyperbole, give him great credit 
for small things, and magnify him altogether. But 
this will be pardoned because of the innocent love 
between them, once more without a shadow. And, 
then, he has a confession to make, a sad thing for an 
old man. 

^‘Confidential, boyss, it ’s t’e doggedest sing I 
efer seen— yas! Why, I said onct ’at he could n’t 
drife no furrow no straighter ’n a mule’s hind laeg 
— my Tressy.” 

They courteously feigned a lack of recollection 
concerning so vile an accusation. 

“Oach! git out, now! Tons recomember well 
enough; chust yous don’ want to let on. Don’ be so 
durn nice to me I ” 

The gentle Dunkards then remembered what he 
wished. 

“Yas. Oach! don’ mind me! You see pooty 
soon how little account 1 am. I ’m a-go’n’ to do 
chustice to my Tress an’ if t’e heafens fall down on 
top of me. So— confidential— boyss, he ken beat me 
a-drifing furrows now— u-hu !— all holler ! What you 
sink? Yous all know what Vat means— a-beating 


11 


162 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


me a-drifing furrows ! An ’ t ’e cows ^at use ’ to fool 
him all round t’e yard— like I tole yous— t'ey almost 
take off t’eir hats to him as he passes by now. An’ 
ole Peter, ’at use’ to hate ’im so— t ’ey chust go 
about toget’er like brot’ers, arm in arm. Calfes! 
Gosh! yous mind what I said ’bout calfes? Well, 
he chust make so wiss his finger, an’ t’ey f oiler him, 
’most like t’e Scriptur’ an’ t’e sheeps. Oach! yas; 
I know it ’s hard to belief e, but it ’s all so, I ain’t 
af eard to cross my breast about it. ’ ’ 

He went cautiously to the door and looked up and 
down the road, then, taking the brick away, he 
carefully closed it, and tried the latch. 

‘‘An’, boyss, yere ’s t’e funniest sing yit— hush! 
somebody coming ? No. I don’ want efery outsider 
to hear it. Mebby I ’d better not tell yous; but 
chustice must be done, like I said. Well, we git 
about fife bushels more to t’e acre ’n we use’ to, an’ 
better wheat yit, account a fertilizer Tress invented. 
Yassir. Eferysing he takes a holt of goes chust like 
it wass greased. Why— hush! hush pertic’ler, 
boyss—” 

He put his hand to his mouth, and delivered his 
secret in a huge whisper : 

“T’e dogged mor’gige iss half gone! Aha, ha, 
ha! What you sink ag’in? Half, mind yous! 
Well, well, well! I knowed you ’d be extonished. 
Oh! t’e maddest man in t’e whole United States, t’e 
last sree years, iss ole Zigler. Dog if he ain’t got 
dyspepsy, an’ epilepsy, an’ nerfous distraction, an’ 
I don’t know what yit, chust account of Tress a-keep- 
ing his bile stirred up constant an’ all t’e time 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


163 


a-running ofer in his bread-basket, pestering him 
wiss t’e back interest on t’e mor'gige. Aha, ha, ha! 
He-he-’’ 

The old man rolled on the counter in the ecstasy 
of some joke. 

‘‘—he— hush!— he expected to git t’e ole farm 
an^— an’— retire, boyss— retire ! Aha, ha, ha!— re- 
tire!— away from business— kind a country place, 
you know. He— he tole me so a large number of 
times. Oh, gosh a ’mighty! t’at ’s a great joke on- 
say, boyss, who ’s t’e joke on t’is time? Me?” 

They said with emphasis that it was not. 

“Right for onct, boyss— exsac’ly right. You im- 
profing slowly. AYell, I got to confess ’at I sought 
he ’d retire to t’e ole place myself— y as, I did; I ’m 
go’n’ to be honest wiss yous. I ’d my mind all 
made up, an’ efen looked around at t’e poorhouse 
a little for a warm room. But chust t’en along 
comes Betsy an’ Tress, an’ make me stay at home 
an’ work— don’t efen want to let me loaf at t’e store 
no more ! Doggone it ! ” 

But they could not be got to commiserate him. 

“Could n’t fool yous t’at time, chentlemen, could 
I? Yas; you improling— sl-owly. So efery six 
mont’s Tress he loads up t’e money-bag an’ t’e 
horse-pistol, an’ hitches up ole Peter, an’ goes to 
town, an’ comes back in t’e efening wiss— chust t’e 
horse-pistol loaded. T’at ’s a little sad— eferysing 
empty but chust t’e ole horse-pistol, an’ nossing 
much about t’e house to eat but salt pork for a 
while. Anyhow ole Zigler ’ll die yit of t’e jimjams 
afore he retires— aha, ha, ha ! Betsy !— she ’s a reg’- 


164 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


ler kenally, boyss. She keeps t^e books !— boo 
What you sink! Like a store or a benk!” 

But he had grown strangely tremulous and ab- 
stracted as he went on. It was as if he were ap- 
proaching something shameful. For some moments 
he held a silence that was almost pensive, an un- 
wonted and pathetic humor for him. Then the 
gaiety that nothing could quench flooded his face 
and sounded in his flne old voice. To regret a thing 
that was irretrievable was to him a folly ; to live be- 
yond the present was to cross bridges he might never 
reach ; to be always in good humor with himself and 
all the world, that was bliss. And if this be not the 
best of philosophy, it had made him the happiest, if 
the most shiftless, of men. And happiness — that is 
what men strive for, even if it comes with shift- 
lessness. 

‘‘Well, boyss, I— I got to— go,’’ he continued, with 
less of roguery; “yit I got to confess a sing— a per- 
tic’ler sing— a/ore I go. Hush!— hush exspecial! 
Yit I ’m a f oo-el ! It don ’ matter ; t ’e whole world 
’ll haf to hear it some time; chustice must be done. 
But, boyss, I hate to say it— I hate to say it.” 

His old Angers trembled as he fumbled in childish 
irresolution at the buttons of his jacket; then he 
threw his head back and looked bravely up. 

“Boyss, it ’s been a mistake all round. I— I been 
imposing on yous for sixty-fife year t’e sird of next 
Jenewerry coming. Well, it ’s no use to fool wiss 
t’e sing. Listen ! My Tress ain’t no nix-nutz what- 
efer! I — me— Elijah P. Kitzmiller, am t’e nix- 
nutz! U-hu!” 


Em NIX-NUTZ 


165 


He straightened up, and slapped himself accus- 
ingly on the breast. 

‘‘Yas; I ’m t’e man. I knowed you ’d be sur- 
prised; I wass surprised myself, an’ sorry, when I 
first found it out. I expect you sorry, too. Mebby 
some of yous— like me— a little?” 

They assured him, with some diffident shuffling of 
feet and hands, that they did. 

“So. Yas; I T1 go fuT’er, an’ say I nefer wass 
so su ’prised in all my life— no, nor so sorry, neit’er. 
Lifing round amongs’ yous for sixty-fife year t’e 
sird of next Jenewerry, an’ nefer finding it out — 
like a whitewashed sepulcher or a leopard wissout 
his spots on. T’at ’s t’e worst fun about it— ’at I 
did n’t knoiv it. A— did you fellers efer notice any- 
sing? Oh, gosh, boyss! mebby yous knowed it all 
t’e time, an’ chust been a-letting me make a foo-el 
off of myself, laughing behint my back! Boyss, 
boyss, t’at wass n’t nice of yous to a’ ole man ’at 
nefer harmed a hair of you’ heads— no, it wass n’t! 
you ought ’a’ tole me— you ought ’a’ tole me !” 

The young school-teacher came in. 

“Sam, t’e definition wass all right, but you ’ll haf 
to change t’e pictur’; I ’ll git mine took for you. 
So f arrywell, boyss ; f arrywell ! ’ ’ 

He waved his hand heavily as he went out, and 
the gentle idlers do not know to this day whether he 
chuckled or sobbed. 


166 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


VII 

WELL— WAS NOT HER NAME LOVE-HEART? 

But Tress was ill,— it could no longer be concealed, 
—and steadily growing worse; and, strangely 
enough, he seemed to grow more cheerful as he grew 
more ill. For a while his own spirit reassured 
Betsy; but there had come such a mysterious and 
unhalting progress to his distemper that she began 
to fear— then, as her fear grew, to be certain, as 
young wives will— that he was going to die. 

She came quietly and climbed into his lap one 
night before the candles were lighted. This was not 
an unusual thing, to be sure; but it had an experi- 
mental effect now because she was going to tell him 
her great secret. That would make him care to live, 
as the gift of his love had made her care to live, 
she thought happily. Then, too, on this particular 
night he was very gay, and the way to his heart 
quite open. 

‘‘Tress,’’ she began, searching him softly, “you 
ain’t- sorry?” 

‘ ‘ Sorry, liebst ’ ? For what ? ” he asked guardedly. 

“Oh! don’t you suspicion— nossing ? ” 

“Well, yes— yes, I do,” he ventured blindly. 

“Oh!” — she was stricken with dire confusion, and 
hid her face in his coat— “you been fooling me.^” 

He let her believe by his owl-like silence that 
he had. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


167 


‘‘It ain^t fair/’ she murmured. “But— you got 
to tell first.” 

“Why,— lem me see,— ’at that yeller calf ’s go’n’ 
to be a— muley?” he guessed whimsically, giving 
way to her. She laughed joyously. 

“Tress, you like me as much as you did— that 
night ? ’ ’ 

“What night?” he asked, with ostentatious for- 
getfulness. 

“Oh, Tress! don’t you know no more?” she re- 
proached him. 

“No; I don’t sink I do, Betsy;” but he pinched 
her cheek. “I lofed you that night.” 

“Tress, why you so— so— mce to me?” 

“Why you so foolish?” 

“I ain’t foolish. Tress. Chust I sought mebby 
you did n’t like me no more— account— account- 
darling!” She had her arms very tight about his 
neck, and was sobbing. 

“Why, Betsy, what ’s the matter— say?” 

‘ ‘ Tress, I got a secret ! ’ ’ 

He waited for her to go on. There was a distinct 
guilt in his unquestioning silence. 

“Tress, you ain’t got no secret from me, haf 
you ? ’ ’ Betsy asked f earsomely. ‘ ‘ Tress ! ’ ’ 

Tress hesitated, and finally said, with an air of 
defeat: “Well— you got to know some time—” 

He put her down, and lighted a candle. There 
was something so solemn and deliberate about the 
act that she began to tremble. He bared his breast. 
It was livid with scars, and there was yet discernible 


168 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


near his heart, in bloody characters, the result of 
his last visit to the mystic of the Barrens : 

I 

N I R 
I 

DULLIX - f 1 1 - IX UX 
I 

N I R 
I 

Betsy had darkly heard of this terrible rubric to 
charm away an evil birthright. Her eyes ques- 
tioned him in horror. 

‘‘Them wass the bloody crosses you seen. Don’ 
be frightened, Betsy; it ’s done now. God, but it 
was awful! I— I got pooty weak on it, did n’t I? 
I sink I ’ll git'ofer it; but”— with a futile attempt 
at bravado— “if you wake up some morning, an’ 
find me— well, dead—” the word was very hard in 
the presence of witching little Betsy— “dead— why, 
you ’ll know ’at the breed ’s stopped, an’ there 
won’t be any more nix-nutzes of the name of Kitz- 
miller!” 

As he went on, the whiteness of Betsy’s face 
changed slowly to red; she drew closer, like a nes- 
tling chick; she looked down for very abasement. 
Presently she whispered, halting at every word : 

“Oh— Tress— it ’s— too— too— 

And Tress? After his consternation he turned 
up her face and solemnly read it. 

“An’ you— glad!” he grieved. 

She nodded guiltily. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


169 


“After all my suffering!’^ 

“Ah! How ken I help it!’^ she pleaded, with 
irrepressible rapture. “An’, Tress,”— she put her 
pink forefinger below that last ugly wound,— “ain’t 
it chust a little spark of gladness down here under 
the Black Woman’s foolishness? Ain’t it. Tress?” 

There was a spark there, and the glow of her sweet 
young motherhood kindled it. She put her hand 
softly up to his cheek. 

“If it ain’t, I ’m sorry for you, Tress, but not 
for anysing else. I ain’t afeard. I wass n’t afeard 
of you when efery one else was.” 

Tress was still holding the candle aloft, and its 
soft yellow light fell upon her upturned face. She 
was very beautiful to him in that rapt moment, full 
of some wondrous charm that he seemed to have 
never felt before. A subtle intelligence passed be- 
tween them, and she panted closer to him. 

“Oh, Tress! would n’t you like to be called—” 
She drew him down, and whispered it. “Me!— I 
dream about it! Chust after while, in a little 
squeaky voice!” She pushed him off in tender 
roguery. 

An honest tear rolled down Tress’s cheek, quickly 
answered by others on Betsy’s. They laughed to- 
gether joyously at their folly. 

“Betsy, you sink me a fool, don’t you?” 

“N-no; chust foolish.” 

She was tugging to get his face down to hers 
again. 

“Look out for the candle !” cried Tress, shakily. 

“Candle! What do I keer for— candles !” she 


170 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


breathed in her fierce delight. ‘‘Lem me, Tress; 
please lem me ! ’ ’ 

He let her have her way with him, and the spark 
she had kindled burst into fiame. 

“They ’ll be like you— the little nix-nutzes. I 
want ’em to be. You so-so—” He had no adjec- 
tive at hand exalted enough for her. Then he 
thought of her own. “Darling!” 

It was the first time he had ever used the daring 
word, and Betsy caught her breath. 

“Tress! You sure. Tress? Don’ call me such 
nice names except you sure ? ’ ’ She turned her head 
archly aside, an odd and charming attitude for her. 
“Tress, you— 

“You little witch, you make it sure!” 

“Witch yit ! Tress— but you— splendid to-night ! ’ ’ 

One arm had found its way around him. With 
the other she was tenderly exploring his scarred 
breast. Her head was tucked under his arm. 

“You got somesing to take them away?” he asked 
shamefacedly. 

She seemed to reflect. Then, with a little laugh, 
she darted into an inner room, returning instantly 
with a great ribbon-bound box. Tress looked his 
astonishment; he thought she had gone for a box of 
ointment. Betsy put up her hand threateningly. 

‘ ‘ Hush ! Shut you ’ eyes an ’ — guess ! ’ ’ 

If he had suspected what the box contained he 
could not have guessed wider of the mark. 

“Oh, you ken nefer guess! Tress, you awful- 
dumb! Look!” She fiung off the lid. 

The box was full of very small and very dainty 
garments. 


EIN NIX-NUTZ 


171 


‘‘But—’’ Tress began. 

“Cbust a little joke on you! They won’t heal 
you— Z got somesing for that. But they ’ll make 
you for git. Me !— I forgot eferysing else— hut chust 
you. Tress, here’s two little socks wiss tossels on an’ 
blue ribbons in! An’ here’s a little—” 

Tress gathered Betsy and all her dainty work in 
his arms. 

“Oh, Tress,” she cooed, “at first— chust right at 
first, mind you— I wass afraid. You wass n’t glad 
—like me. Only — chust— right — at— first.” 





THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT 
OF YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 







THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS 
GIFT OF YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


BOUT THOSE DIS-GUISE 


D 


,0 you remember the day you came?’^ asked 
Pen. 

‘‘Yaes/^ laughed Matsu-San. 

‘‘You looked this way— She sat up suddenly, 
seized a pair of spectacles from the window-sill and 
put them on, endeavoring to look like a much-fright- 
ened but very learned young woman. 

“Yaes,” confessed the Japanese; “I thing mebby 
you long an’ got sour coun-te-nances. ” 

Penelope laughed riotously. 

“Pray describe your sensations when you found 
me disgracefully short.” 

“I dunno,” replied Matsu-San; “Jus’ I dis-ap- 
point. ’ ’ 

Pen laughed again. 

She reflected a moment. It was not quite the 
proper phrase. But she was not sure how to mend 
it. It could not be left that way, at all events. 

“Yaet— I ’m glad I dis-ap-point, ” she ventured. 

175 


176 THE HONOEABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 


“Matsu-San, your English is disgraceful— for a 
teacher of Japanese— and perfectly lovely for your 
pupil. ^ ’ 

It was not the first time this had been said, and 
they laughed in confidence. 

“The fact is, we were both shamming— oh, sham- 
ming dreadfully! You did n’t want to teach and 
I did n’t want to be taught Japanese— much. But 
mama wanted both — very much. Well, her con- 
science is at rest— and so are ours— are n’t they? 
No ? Mine, then ! ’ ’ 

“I don’ lig dis-ap-point that modder— but I lig 
you.” 

‘ ‘ Of course you do ! And that is the whole of it I ” 

Penelope plunged her head into Matsu-San’s lap 
— they were on the floor, Japanese fashion— every- 
thing in Pen’s room was Japanese— and Matsu-San 
put her fingers into the bright hair of the American 
in a fashion both liked. 

t 

“Mama has unconsciously given me the dearest little 
chum I have ever had, and you the most exacting— ” 

She came near to saying mistress. But she always 
avoided this. For, with a certain mystery about 
the girl which she now again thought of, there was 
always the impression that she was something more 
than she appeared. 

‘ ‘ Tom went to see you first, you remember, as soon 
as you answered the advertisement. He said at once 
that the spectacles and the hair and clothes and all 
that were some sort of disguise— Tom ’s fond of 
solving mysteries, you know— and that you were a 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


177 


delusion, but would satisfy mama. By the way, 
I ^d like to know why you undertook to deceive us in 
that way. You might have known you could not. 
It was quite childish. Lucky that Tom saw your 
sweetness so easily. Tom sees everything. At any 
rate, mama has given you a comforter— for you are 
not nearly so sad and mopey as you were when you 
came— and Tom and me a mystery.^^ She whis- 
pered it. ‘ ‘ So you see, it is all right. Everybody is 
satisfied — even you.^^ 

The girl hung her head a moment: 

thing I bedder telling you ’bout those diz- 
guise. I can’ be satisfy till I do those. Tha’s not 
nize. Go at house di^-guise. I all times feeling 
guilty ’bout those. I gon’ tell you long ’go. But 
—tha’s a story ’bout— ’bout me— an’ ’nother per- 
son— an’ I— Mebby the ’nother person don’ lig.” 

Penelope at once scented a romance. 

“Dtd you have to run away?” 

The girl was guiltily silent. 

^‘You did have to run away from some one!” 
cried Pen triumphantly. 

Matsu-San shook her a negative. 

“Why— that is odious,” said Pen in dudgeon. 
“You just admitted it!” 

“Me? Oh, you got aexcuse me. I din say I run 
’way from some one— I din!^^ 

“Well, what then?” demanded the amazed Pen. 
“What else could you do but run away? You cer- 
tainly ranV 

“I— could— run— at— ” confessed the Jap- 
anese shamefacedly and uncertainly. 


12 


178 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 

But this was revolutionary to Pen. 

“Eun after? Why, what can you possibly 
mean ? ’ ^ 

Matsu-San opened the lexicon at the word 

after.’’ She knew what run meant. 

‘Hoarry close behine ’nother,’ ” read the 
teacher of Japanese-English. 

Pen snatched the book out of her hand and impa- 
tiently flung it away. 

‘‘Oh, bother! Who or what did you run after?” 

“I don’ lig for tell,” begged the girl. 

Pen was merciless. 

“But you ’ve got to tell. You can’t start to un- 
fold a mystery which has lost Tom and me such a 
lot of sleep, and then leave it just where it will lose 
us fifty times more. Go on I ” 

“I run after Yoshida,” confessed the girl. 

“And what is hurry.” 

“Tha’s a gent.” 

“0-h-h!” 

And then for a minute Penelope was quite silent. 
It was too good to grasp at once. Pen pulled the 
Japanese into her lap. 

“What ’s his other name?” 

“Aramidzu,” confessed the girl dolefully. 

“Has he more?” 

“Name?” 

“Yes.” 

“No—” very sorrowfully. 

“Now look here. You liked him, did n’t you?” 

The Japanese admitted this. 

“Yes— you loved him— honest, now, did n’t you 
love him?” 


TOSHIBA ARAMIDZU 


179 


The attitude of Penelope was sympathetic, even 
if a little too avid. The girl surrendered. 

“He ^s mos’ bes^ nize gent all the gods aever sen^ 
back at the earth she declared. 

Pen^s face shone. 

‘ ‘ I knew it ! I just knew it all the time ! ’ ’ Which 
was not quite true, for, if she had only suspected it 
she would have had it out of the girl long before. 
“Yes, you could nT marry him because— well, be- 
cause of the opposition of some one— yes, I knew it 
—and he got angry because you would nT brave 
your mother ^s, or perhaps your father’s? Uncles? 
Yes, yes. Perhaps he said that if you cared more 
for them than for him— and so on. A lot of musty 
old uncles! Men are all that way. Well, you 
would n’t abandon them for him, which was lovely 
—but— unwise, and in a fit of pique he left for 
Tokyo, saying you should never see his face again 
—yes— No? Now, don’t interrupt me. There 
may be some small details not quite right, but— 
AVhat, then? After a while your mother— no, it 
was your father? Your uncles? — yes — died — the 
lot of them— and you were all alone. You saw our 
advertisement for a teacher, and you thought you ’d 
come and pretend to be my teacher, but hunt him up 
and tell him that it was all right, and you ’d marry 
him right away — and live happy ever after and alt 
that— yes— yes, I know it was that way. That ’s 
how you came to run after! And you have n’t seen 
or heard of him ? ” 

To this Matsu-San said yes. She wished to say 
more. 

“Well, then, we ’ll find him— yes, we ’ll find him 


180 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 


for you, you poor thing. Oh, Tom will just be 
delighted with such a job. Tom!’’ 

She called urgently, and presently Tom came 
down. 

^‘Tom,” said his sister, “it is all perfectly plain. 
The mystery is a mystery no longer. She has con- 
fessed all. And oh, it ’s perfectly delightful. She 
came here after her lover. She ran— ran after him. 
That is what the spectacles meant. Yes. Well, 
what do you think of it? Now we ’re going to find 
him or — or — die in the attempt.” 

“You do the dying. Pen, and let me find him,” 
said her young brother with the dignity which be- 
came a gentleman of such accomplishments as Pen 
had ascribed to him. 


II 

BUT TOM HAD HIM ALREADY 

“Now, then, go on, Matsu-San, and tell him all 
about— what was his name?” She snatched a piece 
of paper and began to write. 

“Yoshida Aramidzu,” whispered the girl shyly. 

“How tall was he?” 

Matsu-San did not know— and besides, she was 
embarrassed by this huge American energy. But 
presently Pen got from her some matters of descrip- 
tion which would fit ninety-nine Japanese out of 
every hundred. 

Tom smoked and smiled vacantly. 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


181 


chided his sister, ‘‘why don’t you take 
an interest? You ’ve been wild enough about the 
mystery till now. Don’t let me do all the work.” 

Said Tom largely: “You seem to like to work, 
Pen; I don’t— when it ’s so entirely unnecessary.” 

“Why do you say such a horrid thing as that?” 
demanded Pen. 

“Because I ’ve already got the chap—” 

Pen flew at him and forcibly closed his mouth— 
and to say that of Pen is to record considerable in- 
convenience for Tom. 

“You do things with all your soul when you get 
going, don’t you?” asked Tom, with such irony as 
he .could command while extracting the cigarette 
from his larynx. 

“Oh, Tom! dear, dear Tom— oh!” 

“Beads the same both ways,” gibed Tom. 

“But you were just about to give it all away. It 
would never do to be certain until you are sure. I 
would n’t raise a false hope in the breast of that 
child for anything! Sh-h-h!” 

She was still smothering Tom with her arms and 
whispering forcefully. 

“Well— how ’ll you prevent the catastrophe?” 

‘ ‘ Why, whisper it to me. ’ ’ 

She put up her ear to him prettily. Tom was 
tempted to shout something unconnected with the 
serious business in hand into her ear in revenge for 
the cigarette; but he thought better of it. Some- 
thing more piquant— to Tom— had been forming in 
his mind. Now it took definite shape. 

“I can put my hand upon the chap whenever he 


182 THE HONOEABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 


is wanted. The description is simply perfect. I 
have known him for about a year. He did come 
from Satsuma. He has his hair cut Pompadour ; he 
does wear his trousers a little too high ; he has a ring 
on the third finger of his left hand, and he is endeav- 
oring to encourage the growth of a frail mustache. 
He is a clerk in the Registration Office, and lives in 
the Koibashi-Dori. When do you want him ? ’ ’ 

Pen was lost for a moment in amazement. 

‘^Tom,” she whispered back, ‘‘you are an absolute 
wonder. Why, if you were a detective all you 
would have to do would be to sit in your office and 
tell your subordinates where to find things. It must 
be mental suggestion or telepathy— or— ” 

^^When do you want the chap?” demanded Tom 
haughtily. 

Matsu-San was listening, so Pen dissembled. 
“Now, Tom, go right to work. Take in all the clubs 
to-night. To-morrow see the consuls. Next day 
the passenger stations and the steamer lists. ’ ’ Then 
another whisper. ^^Sh! I ’ll let you know. We’ll 
have a regular plan- of— of procedure. Oh!” 

It was a scream of delight. 

“Matsu-San, go up-stairs— go this instant!” 

For once she was the mistress without doubt. She 
pushed the terrified Japanese out of the room and 
up the stairs and closed the door. Then she went 
about the room on tiptoe, as she had seen it done on 
the stage, to all the doors and windows, and at last 
approached the phlegmatic Tom. He was trying to 
roll a cigarette in supreme unconcern of his sister’s 
perturbation. 


YOSHIDA AEAMIDZU 


183 


she whispered hoarsely, snatching his to- 
bacco away from him, ‘‘listen! Tom!’^ she looked 
about again; “we ’ll give him to her for a Christ- 
mas gift!” 

“Give me my tobacco.” 

“Tobacco! Tom! Are you thinking of tobacco 
—now?^^ 

But she gave it to him. 

‘ ‘ In her stocking ? ’ ’ asked Tom, going upon guard 
as if he were sparring. 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“That ’s so. She does n’t wear any.” 

“She does! The most beautiful things you ever 
saw : tabi, she calls them. There ’s a separate place 
for the great toe. ’ ’ 

“All right,” agreed Tom, “in her tabi, then. It ’s 
something like a cat, I suppose.” 

“Won’t it be lovely?” 

A sudden thought came to Tom. It made him 
laugh. 

“Yes,” he replied quickly, “lovely, of course— 
for me.” 

“For all of us! I ’ll work her up till she ’s so 
sad and lonely— almost dead— and just then you ’ll 
bring him in.” 

“Bound hand and foot!” 

“Would n’t that be great! But no— we can’t 
tie him.” 

“Better acquaint her with the usual Christmas 
yarns. You know there is no Christmas here.” 

“Yes— I ’d forgotten that. Tom, you ’re an 
angel.” 


184 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OP 


‘^Sans wings/ ^ grinned Tom. 

Tom laughed again when he took his collar off 
that night. “Two can always play at a joke. I Ve 
got a man. I produce him at the proper— or im- 
proper — time, and he is not the proper man. Tab- 
leau! Ha! ha! ha! I owe you one— several— Pen, 
but after this we ’ll be square.” 


Ill 

NO USE TRYING TO EXPLAIN WHAT CHRISTMAS IS 

“There ’s really no use in trying to explain to 
you exactly what Christmas is in America— even 
if I knew myself— exactly. You ’re Shinto, and 
would n’t understand it in the least. But in a gen- 
eral way, that is the time when everything pleasant 
happens. You get loads of presents— just the kind 
you ’ve been sighing for and been afraid to buy— 
or too poor— and if you don’t like them, the stores 
all exchange after Christmas. And that ’s handy, 
because sometimes you get several of the same kind. 
Well, that ’s the time all the prodigals return, and 
every one of them gets a blessing and some cake; 
and every person who has been the least bit nasty 
to you feels ashamed of it, and sends you a present. ’ ’ 
“How that is nize!” said Matsu-San. 

“Well, that ’s the time your— what ’s his name? 
Oh, yes! Yoshida-San. That ’s the time he will re- 
turn— quite in the way of all the Christmas stories. 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


185 


Tom says so. He ’s got to be told that you are dead, 
and that he is to come here about— well, something 
else. The funeral ! Then we ’ll spring you on him— 
and you ’ve got to do the rest. Only, don’t let it 
fall flat, like some Christmas stories I ’ve read. You 
must keep up the interest to the end— the bitter 
end, as Tom says. But Tom ’ll attend to that. 
Nothing that Tom undertakes ever falls flat. Don’t 
you see how beautifully he ’s planned it? The 
worse he feels before he sees you the better he ’ll feel 
after— oh, Tom ’s a wonder ! ’ ’ 

On the following evening Tom called upon a friend 
of his in the government service, named Tengu, but 
known to him as “The Graven Image.” Tom re- 
fused his host’s shippo pipe, and proceeded to fill 
the apartment with the smoke of his cigarette— to 
the disturbance of his friend’s subsequent repose. 
Tengu smoked only a dainty little of perfumed 
tobacco. 

“Look here,” asked Tom, “have you ever smiled?” 

“Why I should smile?” asked the Japanese. 

“I ’d like to know why you should n’t. But 
never mind. I have known you only ten months. 
You certainly have never smiled in that time. But 
did you before I met you?” 

The Japanese looked at him solemnly. 

“Yaes,” he said. 

“Well, why don’t you do so now? What ’s the 
matter? Have you a secret sorrow?” 

“Yaes,” said the Japanese, and was silent. 


186 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OP 

‘^Oh, don’t tell me. Don’t think of it. I can’t 
keep a secret. Anyhow, ten or twelve hours a day 
in a government office is enough to make one melan- 
choly without having a secret sorrow. Look here, 
I ’ve taken a contract to make you smile. You un- 
derstand ? ’ ’ 

The Japanese apparently understood. 

‘‘You remember my sister. Pen? Yes— the girl 
who used to read you English poetry you did n’t 
—care for— when you first came— a cure for sorrow, 
she called it. ‘Morte d ’Arthur’ and such cheerful 
things. Well, she ’s the chief conspirator, I ’m the 
chief inquisitor, and you are to be the chief victim. 
But— this is going to be a joke on Pen. You know 
what a joke is? All right. Some people don’t. 
You remember mama advertised for a girl to teach 
Pen colloquial Japanese. Well, the result of that 
advertisement was a spectacled and much-disguised 
young person calling herself— now, what the deuce 
does she call herself? AYell, no matter. The joke 
will be the same. 

“This charming young lady— and, by Jove, she is 
as charming as possible— yessir— the most bewitch- 
ing little thing I ever saw. Well, she had a lover in 
Kagoshima named— well, I ’ll be hanged! I never 
can remember names! No matter. She and her 
lover quarreled— could n’t marry, and all that sort 
of thing, on account of the opposition of a stern 
parent— or ditto uncles, I believe. You know the 
rest: lover gets mad, goes to Tokyo, father dies— 
no, it ’s uncles— a cargo of them— all die— girl comes 
to hunt him up and forgive him and marry him and 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


187 


live happy ever after, don’t you know? Well, then, 
we Ve got the girl, but not the lover. My duty, it 
appears, is to find the aforesaid lover and on Christ- 
mas Eve bring him to the house and put him into 
the waiting arms of his sweetheart— Christmas- 
time everything comes your way for once— and then 
give them my blessing. Pen ’s always got me on 
some such thing, and I ’m due to get a little fun out 
of it once in a while. Well, I pretend to have found 
the aforesaid lover, take him up there and put him 
into the arms of the aforesaid sweetheart, and be- 
hold he is not the man. Tableau! Do you under- 
stand ? See the joke ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Yaes,” said he. 

‘WYhy, you ’re easy! Easier than I dared to 
hope. And will you serve as the lover? Only a 
sort of property lover, as it were? To be returned 
after the fatal event in good order and condition- 
reasonable wear and tear excepted, eh? You will 
assist ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Yaes.” 

‘‘Well, then, enough said. Good night.” 


IV 

THE SWEETEST THING 

“Now, Matsu-San,” Pen was saying as she hovered 
about her, “you are a bride. Don’t forget. And, 
dear, you are the sweetest thing I ever saw. I ’m 


188 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 

almost afraid— for Tom! I think it is time for him 
to be here. Tom! Tom!’’ 

This was part of the plot. She hurried to the 
door as if she had heard Tom’s voice. They were 
to pretend that they had discovered at the last mo- 
ment that Yoshida was married and had numerous 
children. Penelope returned with immense lines of 
tragedy upon her face, and immense tones of woe in 
her voice. 

‘‘Oh, my poor Matsu-San,” she wailed, “it is too 
dreadful! Tom has found him, but how can I tell 
you— he is married ! ’ ’ 

Matsu-San grew pitifully white. She slowly 
drooped toward Penelope and moaned. 

“And has children— lots of ’em!” 

“Oh, all the gods in the sky! You make me that 
happy ’bout those Christmas. You tell me tha’s the 
time aeverybody gitting that happy. You tell me 
you fine him an’ he that glad an’ wan’ come an’ 
marry with me this ver’ night. You git aevery- 
thing ready for those marriage— the liddle pine- 
tree—” She glanced about all the preparations for 
the ceremony— “three times three— those sake— I 
git those beautiful garment— all, an’ now—” She 
sobbed and tried to rise. Penelope held her down. 
This was Tom’s cue to appear with Yoshida. Pen 
looked about wildly, but there was no one in sight. 

She had heard Tom’s voice outside. Why did n’t 
he come? The situation was critical. Was it, after 
all, to be a real tragedy instead of a comedy ? 

In truth, Tom had been waiting with his Japanese 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


189 


friend behind the door, and they had just come in 
time to hear that pathetic speech of Matsu-San^s. 
Then it occurred to Tom that he was a brute. 

^‘I SAY, Tengu, we are going to get right out of this. 
I did n’t think I could be such a beast. But it ’s 
all Pen’s doing. A girl never can see a joke! I 
did n ’t know she really cared for the bias-eyed idiot. 
I ’ll be hanged if I ’m going to palm you off on her 
after that. You won’t fill the bill— not half full! 
Poor little thing! It would be sacrilege. A dead- 
and-alive thing like you — with no more sentiment 
than a cigar-store Indian. Come along.” The Jap- 
anese did not move. 

‘ ‘ Why don ’t you come ? Pen ’ll be after us in a 
minute and then it will be all over. She ’s mad as 
a hornet now. Can’t you see that? Come along. 
You don’t know Pen— hang you !” 

Tom tried vainly to drag him off. 

‘'If I come along, she go’n’ be dis-ap-point. ” 

“She ’ll be more disappoint if you don’t.” 

“You tell her her gent marry with ’nother some- 
body. She go’n’ believe those I don’ go unto her.” 

“She ’ll believe it a good deal more if you do.” 

“No—” began the Japanese, when Penelope ar- 
rived with wrath in her face. 

“None of that,” menaced Tom. “It ’s bad 
enough as it is. He ’s bent on going in. ’ ’ 

“Well— why don’t you let him go? What do 
you mean by letting me sit there like a little fool, 
with my heart thumping, while you two quarrel out 
here ? Go right in and— ’ ’ 


190 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 


She had opened the door, but Tom forcibly closed 
it and held her back. With the other hand he was 
also holding the Japanese in a grip of steel. 

‘‘Don’t you understand? Oh, Heavens, the way 
of the transgressor is hard! I ought to have taken 
you into the secret, instead of merely taking you in. 
Well, then, this is not the gentleman in question. I 
was going to substitute him and see what she would 
say— for a joke. But when I heard that about— 
well, you know— I felt like a brute. It is only old 
Tengu. I have known him a whole year. You know 
him, too. Don’t you remember ‘Morte d ’Arthur’? 
Hang it all! No one but me seems to be able to 
appreciate a little humor. Pen, I thought you— 
And old Tengu! He could n’t see it without a sur- 
gical operation on the brain! Heavens!” 

Penelope looked at him and gave a smothered cry 
of dismay. 

“And there she sits—” 

“Like Patience on a monument, waiting for — 
this!” 

He let Tengu go and gave him a shove. 

“Get out, confound you! YHiy did you let your- 
self be led into such— Say, Pen, I ’m awfully 
sorry. Fix this up with her somehow, and I swear 
I ’ll find that chap of hers if it takes the rest of 
my life!” 

Pen did not hear a word. Tengu had softly en- 
tered the room. With a look of terror on her face 
Pen was about to rush in and drag him forth, when 
Matsu-San looked up and saw him. At first some- 


YOSHIDA ARAMTDZU 


191 


thing electric passed over the face of the girl, then 
once more it became quite impassive. She bent 
prettily to the mats and welcomed him. He did the 
same, gradually making his way on hands and knees 
to her presence. There they sat up, facing each 
other. There were some sweetmeats between them 
which she offered him. He took some. 

‘‘That is honorable weather,’’ she said. 

“Most miserable weather,” he replied. 

“Hai?” she asked. 

“Because I have lost the light of your celestial 
eyes. ’ ’ 

“Foolish eyes.” 

“And the sound of your exquisite voice.” 

“A croaking voice.” 

“Your— parent— how is most mighty he?” 

“My father is honorably dead.” 

“Alas! The earth is that much poorer, and Hea- 
ven that much richer.” 

“Hail The Vast Augustnesses 1’ ’ prayed the girl, 
bobbing up and down rapidly. 

“And your uncles?” 

“Dead.” 

“Augustly— how many?” 

“Solemnly all of them.” 

“You teach?” 

“Yes.” 

“She learns?” 

“Yes.” 

“That is well— all well.” 

There was a pregnant pause. 

“Do you sleep well?” asked Matsu-San. 


192 THE HONORABLE CHRISTMAS GIFT OF 


‘‘I have not slept well since the day I miserably 
left you.’^ 

“Your— divine children— do they sleep well?” 

‘ ‘ Alas ! I have no children. ’ ^ 

“For that I am honorably sorry. But your wife 
sleeps well— your most lovely wife?” 

“I have no lovely wife.” 

“Is she then ugly— augustly ugly?” 

“I have no wife— miserably none!” 

“She is solemnly dead?” 

“She has not yet lived.” 

“Hai?” 

“I have not yet married a wife.” 

There was a pause here which would have been 
one of extreme embarrassment to an Occidental 
couple. Not so to these. 

‘ ‘ I have sadly, also, no husband. ’ ’ 

“You also have not augustly married as your 
uncles wished?” 

“No.” 

“Do you desire most excellent marriage?” 

“If some one were so kind as to miserably desire 
me— ” 

“Any one?” 

“I said— some— one.” 

< ( j f i 

Her head had been down. Now she flashed a joy- 
ous look upward. 

<< j >> 

Another pause. Evidently for mental readjust- 
ment. 

“ To-night— here— if you augustly please, I will 
marry you,” said Tengu. 


YOSHIDA ARAMIDZU 


193 


‘‘Yes,’’ said Matsu-San. 

“I see everything excellently ready for mar- 
riage. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I ’ll be hanged!” exclaimed Tom, behind 
the door. 

“It ’s disgusting, ’ ’ said his sister. 

“Let ’s leave them to their fate.” 

“No,” said Penelope, with her teeth shut close. 
“I have set my heart on a wedding— and a wedding 
there shall be to-night. ’ ’ 

And there was. 


13 



•I 

1 


\ 


u 


DIZZY DAVE” 


I 


DIZZY DAVE 


I 


THE DEAREST SPOT ON EARTH TO DAVE 

twenty David Prentiss Dillingworth began his 



-TjL career. Unfortunately, it was not under so 
splendid a name. He was simply Dave— and a little 
later ‘‘Dizzy Dave.’’ Another curious fact about 
this career is that it began and ended at precisely 
the same spot— its pinnacle. It is true that he had 
had another “occupation” before he became collec- 
tor on the merry-go-round. (He scorned always the 
emasculated intellects which made it but a “carrou- 
sel.”) But this other occupation was a thing of 
which he was justly ashamed and which he kept in 
the background. For it was not a career, but sim- 
ply an episode in the way of toil he was obliged to 
lead in order to eat his bread in the perspiration of 
his face. But you must be informed of this aberra- 
tion on the way. 

He had, then, been the mere assistant to the driver 
of an ice-cart. He was not even, at that time, per- 
mitted to share in the artistic operation of sawing 
out the splendid square blocks in which the ice was 
served, nor the commercial ones of weighing, or col- 


197 


198 


''DIZZY DAVE 


lecting (from those few who paid cash), or of book- 
ing the accounts against those unfortunates who let 
them be booked. He was permitted only to swing 
the ice from the scales into the numerous refrig- 
erators along the route. 

At this he often protested. 

ain’t no dog!” he would say. 

His chief would pretend not to understand his 
metaphor. He would probably answer, ‘‘No, just 
a pup.” 

But if he chose to understand, he would say, per- 
haps, “Why, say, you got all the servant-girls to—” 

Dave would admonish him to “Shut up or I ’ll—” 

Which gave him a reputation with his chief for 
being a hater of women. This, however, was not 
the fact. 

This question of the excellence of their occupation 
often rose between them. And, always, Dave dis- 
dained it. 

“Say, you think you ’ve got a sweet job, don’t 
you?” This was Dave, of course. 

“Bet your life,” answered his superior. 

“Well, you ’re a chump 1 I ’m going to get some- 
thing bigger. ’ ’ 

On that occasion his chief thought seriously for 
five minutes. Then he said: 

“Look here, Dave, I don’t want you to git sour 
on your job. Some day I ’ll git promoted to the 
yard. Then you ’ll git my place. You ’re the best 
assistant I ever had, anyhow. Don’t need to be 
yellin’ at you all the time. Don’t need to be afraid 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


199 


of you not doin’ it all right. And you ’re not afraid 
of dogs.” 

“To— Chelsea with you and the ice!” said Dave. 

“Say— I mean that, every word of it. Here!” 

He nearly paralyzed Dave by holding out a silver 
dollar. 

“You don’t mean it!” said Dave, securing the 
coin, which he somehow fancied might vanish up 
his chief’s sleeve. 

“And there ’ll be more— now and then,” the 
donor encouraged. 

“Say— do you know what I ’m goin’ to do with 
this?” questioned Dave. 

“Take it to Sunday-school, I suppose,” was the 
answer he got. 

“Blow it in on the M. G. R. It ’s ice-money!” 

‘ ‘ Better keep away from there, ’ ’ warned his supe- 
rior. “It ’s the sort of place that steals your money 
and addles your brains.” 

“The dearest spot on earth to me is the old 
R. M. G.,” sang Dave, in defiance of truth, rh3dhm, 
and nomenclature. 

But, if his metaphor was somewhat extravagant, 
this was indeed to Dave a place of light and color 
and melody and gaiety— the hum of humanity— the 
touch of the herd— the thing for which organized 
society stands— all those things which our gregari- 
ousness gives us and makes dear. 

Well, he did what he had threatened to do with 
his gift. He bought twenty-five tickets and stayed 
on the machine till they were spent. He chose for 


200 


‘‘DIZZY DAVE'' 


his steed the silver-gilt, gory-lipped, jewel-eyed 
griffin— at once the most splendid and sympathetic 
of all the beasts that circled to the music of the or- 
chestrion. It was nearly three hours. For, five 
times out of the twenty-five he snatched the ‘‘gold 
ring which entitled him to an extra ride. Three 
hours for snatching rings— two and three at a time 
—three hours for caressing the glittering griffin, 
three hours of the orchestrion! 


II 

IT COST HER HER HEART— AND HIM A DOLLAR 

It was exactly twelve o’clock when they ordered 
him from the back of the griffin and closed the doors 
upon him. 

As he went home along the board walk he was 
very tired, but vastly exhilarated, as one is who has 
drunken wine. And he walked in a wide serpentine 
fashion— to keep from going in a circle. And now 
and then he would stop and catch one foot with the 
other in a queer ly suggestive way— and grab out 
suddenly and ferociously for a passing ring. If he 
missed it, he would shake his head and swear. If 
he caught it, he would fling it into the mouth of the 
“nigger” a little further along the walk. Then he 
would shake his head up and do^vn and laugh, and 
suddenly go on as if to catch up with something. 
And he whistled the airs of the orchestrion, and 


‘'DIZZY DAVE” 


201 


tooted its horns, and beat its drums, and clashed its 
cymbals. 

A man and a woman met him, passed him, then 
turned and followed him. 

‘‘What do you suppose is the matter with him?’^ 
questioned the woman, fearsomely. 

“I don’t know,” said the man, cautiously. 

“I ’m afraid!” whispered the woman, suddenly 
closing upon him. 

The man put his arm about her. 

“Oh, well, there ’s nothing to be afraid of—” 

“Do you think so?” she asked, a trifle coldly, get- 
ting off a little. 

The man saw his mistake. Then there was no rea- 
son for his arm. 

“Well, I don’t know-” 

The girl came back to him. 

“I ’ll tell you what,” she said, suddenly. “It 
is he.” 

“Yes- who?” 

“He was on the merry-go-round with us— don’t 
you remember?” 

The man did remember. 

“And it has got into his head! I see.” 

“And his feet,” laughed the girl, “and hands— 
and everything!” 

She laid her head on the shoulder of her escort. 

“It does get into one’s— feet— and hands— and— 
everything, ’ ’ he whispered fondly. 

“Into one’s Yery— heart sighed the girl. 

In a moment, when he got his courage, he kissed 
her. 


202 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


Then, suddenly, he said, ‘‘I have adored you so 
long— I have wanted to tell you so long— I had n’t 
the courage till— oh, I have loved you so— and it is 
all dark here— and I am not afraid to ask you—” 
He whispered the rest. 

‘‘Well— that ’s the happiest day— night— 7 ever 
spent ! ’ ’ 

It was Dave standing before them and making 
this sage observation. But he could not quite un- 
derstand their confusion. 

“What ’s the matter with you two?” he asked. 

The man understood. 

“Well— it ’s— only— the happiest day— night— 
ive ^ve ever spent— so far,” he laughed. 

“Oh!” said Dave, a little bewildered. “I seen 
you on the machine. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” whispered the girl. “You were riding 
the gilt griffin. We were riding the—” she laughed 
—“the goats!” 

The man laughed with her. 

“It cost me a dollar,” said Dave, with vast pride 
in the fact. 

“Me about the same,” said the man, as he tried 
to go. 

“What did it cost you?” 

Dave addressed the girl, forgetting about the 
courtesies of the machine where a lady and gent 
were concerned. 

“It cost me— my heart,’ ^ whispered the girl, fling- 
ing him a riotous kiss. “Good night.” 

“They say it ’s bad for the heart,” said Dave 


'‘DIZZY DAVE” 


203 


after them, as they passed into the shadows. ^‘The 
doctors say it ’s bad for the heart. Poor girl ! But 
don’t you be discouraged. They say mine ’s not 
right. Too much merry-go-round. But don’t you 
care. Good night. ’ ’ 

'‘Good night!” came laughing back through the 
shadows. 

As Dave wound his way home he forgot for a mo- 
ment the music of the orchestrion, the jeweled eyes 
of the griffin, the rings, and all the excitement and 
thought of the man and woman. 

“That ’s nice,” he said, reaching out his arm to 
inclose the air as the man had done to inclose the 
woman. 

It was the first time he had ever thought it nice— 
or, in fact, thought of it at all. 


Ill 

THE BLUE-EYED GRIFFIN NAMED GOOLEY 

Dave had long been well known at the merry-go- 
round. He had become one of those gratuitous aids 
who drift into places and assume employment by a 
sort of superior adaptation. The thing he did most 
was to poke up the fires when the place opened 
at Easter and fires were necessary, and to set the 
chairs again in mathematical rows when they had 
been disarranged by sparking couples. And so 


204 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


thoroughly had he preempted these small employ- 
ments that the Man — which was his abbreviation for 
manager — often ordered him to the work. And these 
small occasions made Dave very happy. For they 
meant that he was approaching a state of indispen- 
sableness to the Man— and there was a vast hope 
in that. 

So that he had courage to say, one day, Say— if 
you ever need another man on the machine—’^ 

But the manager looked fearfully discouraging. 

‘‘Say— I ’m dead sour on the ice— and summer ^s 
coming. ’ ^ 

The manager relented a little from his attitude of 
enormous frigidity. 

“And— say— I ’m not so mighty partic’lar about 
wages as some people. What a man wants is some- 
thing to do that he likes ! ’ ’ 

And there Dave very wisely left it. 

It was less than a week after this that the collector 
had his leg nearly twisted off. On the following 
morning Dave was in the wounded man^s laced coat 
and cap— considerably too large for him. But if he 
had had a sword and a few other things which a 
major-general wears, he would have felt quite like 
one— even if he did not quite look it. And, after 
all, it is not what people see, but what we think they 
see, which makes us content. 

After a day or two of this bliss, Dave courteously 
went to see his predecessor in office. Perhaps it was 
a mistake to go in his host’s clothes. But Dave did 
not refine upon matters of decorum. It was his uni- 


“DIZZY DAVE" 


205 


form — the badge of his office. Only, the sick man 
received him the more coldly for that, I think, say- 
ing, ‘‘Why— what t’— Chelsea 
“How you gittin’ along?’' asked Dave, smoothing 
the nap of his cap on his sleeve. 

“What do you want?” snarled the other. 

“Say— 7 did n’t do you no dirt,” said Dave. “I 
jist wanted to know—” 

“When I ’d git back? To-morrow.” 

“That ’s all right. Git back when you like. I 
did n’t do you no dirt. Summer ’s coming and 
there ’ll be work for us both.” 

“Well, you git out of here.” 

Dave did so. 

He went back to the merry-go-round, and, notwith- 
standing the machinations of the man he had dis- 
placed, stayed there for two years. 

At about the end of the two years some one began 
to notice that Dave was queer. He had acquired 
that serpentine walk when off the machine— which 
was as little as he could make it ; he had become very 
fond of the beasts— sometimes fancying them alive. 
He would fondle them, pat them, pull their manes 
and tails, and call them by the strangest names ever 
heard. The griffin, which he loved best, was named 
Gooley ; others found such names as Daffin, Brudey, 
Gindig, Billmark, and so on. At night— he was al- 
lowed to sleep with the animals— he dreamed of 
them— and when he woke, spoke to them. Often he 
would get iip to caress them. In time the wooden 
bosom of the gilt griffin held every secret Dave had 


206 


‘'DIZZY DAVE” 


ever had. And, while the jewels of all the animals 
glittered as only glass and mica can, those of the 
griffin somehow outshone all the rest. For, gradu- 
ally, all of them had come into the hands of Dave 
for their grooming. Once a man (whom Dave ex- 
pressively anathematized) pointed at the griffin with 
his stick— and the griffin lost an eye. When the 
new one came it was blue. The other was a velvety 
brown. Dave would not have it. 

^‘No one canT see ’em both at one time,” argued 
the manager. 

Dave stubbornly said, ‘‘You just cough up an- 
other eye— will you? And make it blue.” 

Well, Dave had become the autocrat of the merry- 
go-round and the manager procured the eye— 
though not in the fashion demanded. 


lY 

HIS BRAINS WERE MIXED AND HIS HEART 
WAS n’t right 

Presently two doctors came to see Dave. It was 
a surreptitious visit— accomplished upon the ma- 
chine. Afterward the manager told him that he 
should have to ‘ ‘ dispense with his valuable services ’ ’ 
—quite in the way of the big stores in the city, he 
thought. 

“What t’— Chelsea!” laughed Dave, going about 
his business. 


''DIZZY DAVE’^ 


207 


But the manager remained that night and tried to 
explain to Dave his hard necessity. 

“Going around has mixed up your brains, and 
your heart is not right.” 

“My own brains and my own heart, ain’t they? 
Well, I jist guess I ’ll do with ’em what I like.” 

The manager tried to explain that he could n’t. 

“You know there ’s a society for the extension of 
cruelty to — to — well — animals — ’ ’ 

But it did not seem right, and Dave laughed 
again. 

“Well— there ain’t no animals taken better keer 
of than these here.” 

“No— no, live animals,” said the manager. “You 
see, Dunny”— that was Dave’s predecessor— “ and 
you had a scrap, and he ’s gone and put the animal 
fellows onto you. Told ’em that you was going the 
same way he went— and all that kind of stuff— and 
they ’re going to arrest you and jail you if you don’t 
stop right now.” 

Dave laughed more than ever. 

“Say— I ’m no end of chump, but I ain’t no 
wooden animal.” 

But several days later the manager caught him 
on the back of the machine. 

“Officers over there looking for you. Skip,” he 
whispered. 

Dave looked and saw them. A swift vision of the 
cell and exclusion from the merry-go-round forever 
possessed him. He supposed the threatened impris- 
onment would be for life, of course. He did what 
the manager suggested— skipped by the back door. 


208 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


In three days he was furtively back. Dunny was 
there— in a new uniform. Nothing could have 
been more bitter. But every day he came and sat 
very straight up in a chair— holding himself in it 
with a frenzied grip while the orchestrion played 
and the machine started. Every day he sat there 
from morning till night — speaking never a word, 
staring straight at the beasts, getting thinner and 
thinner, breaking the heart they said was not right. 

In sheer desperation the manager said one day, 

‘^Dave — fix the chairs !’' 

‘‘Who? Me?” asked Dave. 

It was full summer then, and there was no fire. 
But the manager wanted relief from the eyes which 
accused him. Dave turned his face briefiy upon 
him and then turned again to the beasts. 

“Who? Me?” again, was all he said. 

On another day the manager said to Dave, “Dave, 
for God’s sake go away— sfai/ away.” 

“Who? Me?” asked Dave, not looking at him at 
all this time. 

“Yes, you.” 

They sat silent for several minutes. Then the 
manager said again. “Dave, I want you to keep 
away.” 

“Who? Me?” asked Dave. 

But presently the manager spoke with force. 
“Blame you, I want you to stay away. You make 
me creep. Ain’t you got anything else to do? Or 
say— 

“Who? Me? Well-no.” 

“I ’ll give you a dollar to stay away.” 


'‘DIZZY DAVE” 


209 


‘‘Yes, you.’’ 

Then Dave spoke: “They call me— they— ” he 
pointed to the beasts. “They want me. I want 
them. And the music. I hear it all night. I can 
stay in this chair now. At first I could n’t. Mebby 
my heart is wrong. But I ’ll die right here— you 
bet — right by the machine and the wooden animals.” 

Presenti^y the little children he had known upon 
the machine found him— and then it was better. 
But still, with a hand of each in his own, he stared 
straight at the machine. 

And what he said to them one day was this: “Say 
— Gooley’s eyes need cleaning— and there ’s a piece 
broke oif his harness— there at the rump. And 
there ’s dust on his tongue— and his tail ain’t been 
combed out for a month. ’ ’ 

The manager spoke to him on another day. 
“What ’s the matter with you, anyhow?” 

“WTio? Me? MTell- say, now I ’ll tell you— 
dying, said Dave. 

‘ ‘ So am I, ’ ’ grinned the manager. 

“Honest,” said Dave. “Feel.” 

He opened his coat and offered the manager his 
heart. The manager put his hand on it. It cer- 
tainly fluttered queerly. His face became sympa- 
thetic. This was not lost upon Dave. 

“Say— I ’ll work for a dollar,” he said. 

“No,” said the manager. 

“A half, then.” 

The manager was less obdurate. 


14 


210 


^‘DIZZY DAVE” 


‘‘I ’ll work for nothing.” 

“Don’t you see that I ’ll git arrested myself if— 
oh, git out ! ’ ’ 

“I ’ll find my own grub.” 

The manager refused. But he added : 

“Say— you see the doctors of the animal society. 
If they say all right— ’ ’ 

Dave gripped this hope and went at once. 

The doctors said yes— that stopping had only 
made him worse. He might as well go on with it. 
It would kill him anyhow. 

Well— Dave’s heart stopped acting queerly the mo- 
ment he put the uniform on. And, also, his brain 
was clearer. 

It is, of course, unnecessary to point out that hap- 
piness had returned to Dave— and perhaps it is quite 
as unnecessary to point out how much happiness has 
to do with our bodily well-being. 


y 

SHE— AND SOMETHING ELSE 

And then Dave met /ler— poor Dave ! Have you been 
wondering when he would meet her ? She had been 
coming to the merry-go-round for a long time. But 
she never rode. She was very pretty in a fragile 
fashion. But her face was pale and her tired blue 
eyes had appealed to Dave like nothing else on earth 


‘'DIZZY DAVE” 


211 


from the first moment he had looked upon her. 
(You know his passion for blue eyes.) And, pres- 
ently, for no reason that he could fathom, Dave 
would think of the man and woman on the board 
walk— and he would find himself in a little ecstasy, 
sometimes, putting out his arm that way to inclose 
the air. So that this queer movement was added to 
his many others after the girl began to come to the 
merry-go-round. And, after unconsciously execut- 
ing that movement, he would always glance guiltily 
around to see if she had noticed it. For the rest, 
he saw that she had pretty hands; that she wore a 
becoming hat, fashionable shoes, and a long ulster 
of blue, and that her hair narrowly escaped redness. 

One hot day her eyes slowly closed and she fell 
forward in a faint. Dave leaped from the machine 
and was first at her side. He discovered an unsus- 
pected ability and tenderness in such cases, and was 
left to bring her around. When she had recovered, 
he, with quite the air of a prince, sent for a car- 
riage and had her taken home in it— at his own 
expense. 

The next day she thanked him. And then some- 
thing new happened to that queer heart of his. It 
gave such a suffocating leap that he had to hold 
it in. 

‘‘You ^re sick, ainT youT’ he asked of the girl, 
when his heart would let him. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“mat is it?” 

“My heart.” 

“Mine ’s not right, too,” said Dave. 


212 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


“Oh!’’ said the girl. “Don’t the machine make 
it worse 

“No— better.” 

“But the doctor told me it would make mine 
worse ? ’ ’ 

“Doctors— Say”— he remembered then--“say 
—the doctors don’t know nothin’. They said I 
was— Say— it ’s cured me. You jist try the ma- 
chine. It ’ll cure you.” 

The girl hesitated. 

“Try it once. Once ain’t a-go’n’ to hurt you— 
ain’t a-go’n’ to kill you.” 

“I ’m not rich enough to-day,” confessed the girl 
then, with a little laugh, and then a sigh. 

“You got good clothes,” said Dave, craftily. 

“Oh— the lady boarders give me them. They 
pity me because I ’m sick. I tend their babies. My 
mother works at the Starboard. They say I ’m 
pretty, too, and can wear nice clothes— know how, 
don’t you know? Do you think I ’m stylish?” 

“Me?” 

Dave slowly inventoried the pretty modishness of 
everything she had on. 

“Yes,” he said, with a swing of his arm. “I ’ll 
tell you— yes!” 

“You pity me, too ? ” 

“Me?” 

He looked at her again. 

“Yes— and something else,” said Dave. 

“Oh— what else?” 

Dave thought a moment and then shook his head 
in bewilderment. 


“DIZZY DAVE" 


213 


dunno/^ he said, 
eyes?— 

Dave looked into them and the heart within leaped 
against his ribs again. ‘‘I had blue eyes put into 
Gooley, ^ ’ he said. ^ ‘ Blue eyes are becoming— yes ! ’ ’ 

“Gooley— the girl began. 

But just then the bell clanged for the start. Dave 
leaped for the machine. But then he turned back. 

Say— try one!^^ he begged. 

Just a moment she waited. 

‘‘You can— say— you can have Gooley!’^ 

“But who is Gooley?’^ 

“The griffin. Come— 

The machine was in motion. He lifted her on and 
put her arms about Gooley ^s neck. 


VI 

THE QUEEN OP THE M. G. R. 

At the first sweep she grew panicky. 

“I ’m going to get off ! I ^m fainting she cried. 
Dave closed his hand firmly upon hers, locking 
her arms around the neck of the gilt griffin. She 
flung herself back upon him and rested there as the 
thing swirled on. Dave might have been excused 
for supporting her with his arm. But he did not. 
■What he had was glorious enough, and it was day- 
light. That other affair had occurred in the twi- 
light of the electrics. He had always associated the 


214 


“DIZZY DAVE" 


two. Besides, he was afraid. Presently— the time 
seemed ineffably brief to Dave— her panic passed 
and she leaned forward on the neck of his beloved 
griffin and watched the crowd swing by with a vast 
pleasure. Dave knew he could leave her alone. 
And he did it. 

“Don’t let go jist yit,” he cautioned. “You 
might fly off the machine. After a while you can 
stand up all alone like her.” 

He pointed to her neighbor— daringly poised on 
the very edge. 

When he had collected his fares, he came and 
stood watchfully at her side until the machine 
stopped. 

“You must git off now,” he said gently. 

“Oh, can’t I have another?” she besought. 

‘ ‘ Not to-day, ’ ’ answered Dave, regretfully. ‘ ‘ Two 
to-morrow— three next day— and so on. Must n’t 
take too much in one day. That ’s the way to help 
your heart.” 

“Well, thank you, Mr.— Mr.— ” 

“Jist Dave.” 

The girl laughed splendidly. 

“Thank you, jist Dave, for a very pleasant after- 
noon. ’ ’ 

Dave gave a sort of military salute. 

“I ’ll be here to-morrow.” 

Dave saluted again. 

“You ’ll have another pleasant afternoon to-mor- 
row, then— and— and”— it was a daring thing to 
say, but he said it— “and so will I.” 

“Of course,” she agreed. 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


215 


But that was too much for him. He plunged back 
upon the machine. 

After that the world changed for Dave. He 
taught her all the tricks of the machine. He taught 
her to balance like some feathered thing upon its 
very edge. And she was quite as safe from accident 
as some feathered thing would have been. He, some- 
how, had the impression that, at danger, she would 
not fall off, but fly away. And it was she alone who 
could snatch three rings at a time for his teaching. 
And she knew all the airs of the orchestrion as well 
as Dave, and, of course, when it came to singing 
them, sang them better. First he called her Queen 
of the M. G. K-., and then the bystanders, hearing 
it, called her that also. And so she became Queen. 
Each pale cheek got a pretty spot of red in it, and 
when it became too warm to wear the ulster she took 
it off and discovered to Dave— so she said— how she 
had grown too plump for it. One day she told him 
that he had saved her life— everybody said so. 

‘‘Well— it ^s a stand-off. You saved mine,’’ was 
what Dave answered. 

The bystanders called it an infatuation on Dave’s 
part because she was beautiful and he ugly— each 
growing more and more so. But many of them had 
seen her grow from frailty to health and gave his 
care credit for it, and wished him luck. 

The manager was somewhat doubtful for a while. 
But Dave neglected nothing. 

The nights when, perhaps, he ought to have slept 


216 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


were devoted to the care of the machine in every 
small detail. And, since she rode it, everything 
must be as dainty as herself. So the machine was 
never so resplendent. As to the fares— he soon dis- 
covered that they were all paid. For it was always 
understood, at the manager’s headquarters, that on 
the days when the Queen rode twenty-five times 
Dave got nothing to eat. 


VII 

THE COMING OF THE PALE YOUNG MAN 

Dave had not seen her for several days. He meant 
to go to the Starboard that evening to inquire 
whether she was ill. Indeed, he had gone so far as 
to have a pair of cuffs and a collar laundered for 
the occasion. But she came that day— her roses 
blooming as never before. And Dave was more un- 
happy at her presence than at her absence. For 
with her came a pale young man with whom she 
seemed very chummy. Something within Dave 
seemed to leap very high and then to fall very low, 
and for a moment he did not know what went on. 
When he got his bearings he knew that the machine 
had started and that they were aboard— hanging 
together over the neck of the griffin ! She had abso- 
lutely no eyes for him. But he went to her— on the 
side where the young man was not— and asked, with 
an airy huskiness which he fancied concealed his 
emotion, ‘‘WIio the gent?” 


^‘DIZZY DAVE” 


217 


‘‘Oh— only— well— my cousin,” she said. 

“Your pick-up,” said Dave, brutally. 

The girl flashed at him. 

pays my fare to-day.” 

“That ’s— good,” said Dave, staggering away 
with his hand on his chest. 

When they left the machine she said, “Twenty- 
flve times!” 

Dave had never been able to give her more. It 
took his day’s wages to do that. But he said quietly, 
while he got very pale, “You can have fifty off of 
me.” 


After they were gone Dave mused. “Two dollars! 
He T1 not come again. ’ ’ 

But he did come the next day, and the next, and 
the next. And Dave began again to look very ill. 
So much so that the Queen pitied him. She ex- 
plained: “He ’s got trouble with his heart— the 
same as I had. I ’m going to cure him. Same as 
you did me, don’t you know. That ’s all.” 

“And what ’s he going to do for you?” asked 
Dave. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl. 

“Does he put his arm—” 

Dave made that motion he had seen on the board 
walk. 

“Well— I just guess not!^^ said the girl, with a 
certain flickering of the eyelids which was lost upon 
simple Dave. 

“I ’m glad of that,” said Dave, with a vast relief. 


218 


‘‘DIZZY DAVE” 


‘ ‘ What ? ^ ’ asked the girl, laughing at him. It had 
been so easy. 

‘‘I saw— a man— do that one night. I thought it 
nice. He said it was the happiest night of his life. 
She said they learned it on the M. G. K. She had 
trouble with her heart, too. She said she lost it— or 
spent it— or something like that. I don’t see how 
she could git along after that. Some day I ’ll do 
that— if you don’t mind.” He accomplished the 
suggestion. 

The girl laughed again. 

‘‘Dave,” she said, “I don’t believe you ’ve got all 
your buttons.” 

She ran away, and Dave looked up and down him- 
self for his lost buttons. 

At the next opportunity Dave said, “Say— it cost 
him two dollars the other day.” 

“Oh— he don’t mind that,” said the girl. “He ’s 
rich. And— say— he ’s a gentleman.” 

Dave thought a moment. “And what am I?” he 
asked her then. 

‘ ‘ Dave, ’ ’ she said. 

“Dave,” he repeated. 

There was something new in her pretty tones. 
Dave did not know what it was— only that he was 
not in sympathy with it. 

“That ’s what you said— just Dave,” she ex- 
plained. 

“Yes— that ’s what I said,” admitted Dave. 

When she had gone, he repeated it to himself. 
“Jist Dave.” 


'‘DIZZY DAVE” 


219 


Then he thought a moment. There was something 
vaguely depressing about it. He spoke to the thing 
within, “Well— ain’t that right— jist Dave?” 


VIII 

“if you ain’t got no money— well, you 

NEED n’t come AROUND ” 

But one day she came alone— and she looked as if 
she had been crying. 

“Where ’s the gent?” asked Dave. 

“Gone back to college. He ’s a student, you 
know.” And she was proud of him as a student. 
Studentship was something fine and mysterious to 
her little soul. 

“Coming back?” questioned Dave, with an im- 
mense assumption of indifference— while he felt at 
least twenty pounds lighter. 

“Of course,” said the girl. 

Dave did not feel quite so light. 

“Heart not right yit, I expect?” 

“No, not much better,” said the girl. 

“You cured mine in a month,” said Dave. 

The girl laughed. “Sure you ’re cured?” she 
asked. “He ’s not so easy to cure.” 

“Sure. Well— git on and have one with me. He 
won’t mind— jist one?” 

The girl started a little at this subtlety. 

“You promised me fifty!” she cried, as she got on. 

“Cert,” said Dave, with dignity. “You kin have 
’em. C. 0. D., you know.” 


220 


‘‘DIZZY DAVE” 


She took them— and that night the receipts and 
the tickets did not agree by exactly a dollar. 

Say— is he go^n^ to marry you?” asked Dave one 
day, when the sting of the rivalry was forgotten, 
dunno,” said the girl, flushing. “Why?” 

“Oh, if he ain’t, I ’d like to.” 

“You ain’t got no money,” said the girl. 

“Me? Well-if I had?” 

“Oh — if you had — well — I ’d see about it. ‘If 
you ain’t got no money— well, you need n’t come 
around,’ ” she sang, laughing. 

“Say— if you ’re ingaged to him— say— I don’t 
do no one no dirt. But if you ’re not—” 

“I ’m not exactly— engaged to him—” 

Dave smiled to himself. He had seen enough 
merry-go-round flirtations to have faith. 

That night the cash was short again— two dollars. 

The next night it was flve— then ten. 

It had proved too easy to Dave- to steal. 

And the shortage continued. Dave had been 
tested and found honest. So suspicion fell upon the 
other man. 

But the summer went by and the Queen became 
pale once nlore. And, sad as this was, it was sweet 
to Dave, for it was once more quite as at first- 
when she was ill and tender with him — and full of 
the little lures which bewitched. Only now there 
was something in her which appealed and was never 
satisfied. And, too, when she had nearly everything 
she wished! She never inquired where the money 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


221 


came from. It was sufficient to know that she had 
but to wish for things and they came. It took a 
great deal of money. But she did not know this— 
she had never had any money, and its value was 
quite unimportant to her. 

And Dunny was in jail for stealing. He sent for 
Dave, but this time Dave refused to see him. 

And he declined to think he was quite a thief, 
because it was not for him, but for her. And, really, 
to be as frank as he would have been had he had the 
opportunity, he did not care. I refer to the moral- 
ity of the matter. The money brought him a wan 
smile now and then, made her pretty with new mil- 
linery and clothes— so that she was quite a distin- 
guished young lady. For the little butterfly was 
born with unerring taste. She, of course, did not 
originate. But she knew instinctively, when she saw 
the garbing of other women, precisely what was in 
the best taste, and, what is more and better, pre- 
cisely what was best fltted for her. And then Dave 
did the rest— and after it was done he fell down 
and worshiped. 


IX 

THE KHAKI UNIFORM 

Then, one evening, as Dave was going home, he saw 
a man and a woman on the walk before him. His 
arm was about her. Her head was on his shoulder. 
He was in the uniform of a soldier. That was what 


222 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


he had always dreamed— that he might do that. He 
determined that the following night he would invite 
the Queen to walk with him on the board walk and 
—suddenly the outline of the girl before him seemed 
familiar. 

‘‘Why- what t^ Chelsea-’^ 

He ran forward blindly. The thing within leaped 
and dropped and left him with a lost minute. When 
he understood again, they had disappeared. He 
laughed at himself. At just that spot on the next 
night he meant to have his dream come true. 
He should marry her at once then. But still he re- 
membered the man in the uniform. It was a khaki 
uniform— trimmed with blue. Well— he should 
marry her. Then he could put his arm around her, 
ad libitum. 

He did not sleep that night, and the next morn- 
ing the leaping thing within troubled him and left 
gaps in the day which nothing but she could fill. 
And she did not come. 

Until late in the afternoon. Then she came with 
the young soldier in the khaki uniform. 

He saw that the roses were again in her cheeks, 
and he knew that she was laughing and saying some- 
thing to him. 

‘‘Been to Cuba! The fraud 

“Been to Cuba,” said the soldier. “Wounded at 
Santiago. Home on furlough.” 

The youngster looked vastly important and the 
Queen vastly proud. 

“Say,” whispered the Queen to Dave, “he 
would nT have looked at me if it had n’t been for 


'‘DIZZY DAVE” 


223 


my nice clothes. He said so ! He ’s horribly proud 
since he ’s a soldier. ’ ’ 

The soldier smiled, and Dave felt that it was true. 

‘‘Fine feathers— you know. But, Queen, you ’re 
handsome, too. You ’d be a lady if—” 

Dave understood and resented it. He knew now 
that the soldier did not mean to marry her. 

“Say— you ’re a sneak— you— ” 

But he did not quite strike. An officer was ap- 
proaching him. Dave understood that also. The 
thing within leaped and dropped. The machine 
started. Dave drooped and clung to the neck of the 
griffin— as to an only friend. The Queen, as he 
raised his fist, had flung herself into the arms of 
the soldier and threatened Dave. The officer stepped 
aboard. He put his hand on Dave’s shoulder. 

“I arrest you,” he said. 

Dave gasped once, and wilted from under his 
hand like a rag. 

The Queen and the soldier did not understand. 
They turned their backs and hung panting and 
laughing over the griffin. She edged up against him 
and slipped her arm through his. 

“Don’t mind him,” she whispered fondly; “he ’s 
just Dave.” 

Some one clanged the bell harshly to stop the ma- 
chine. The Queen looked around petulantly to see 
what was the matter. 

They were taking a man from under the machine. 
His scalp was torn and there was blood on his 
crushed face. He wore the uniform of the machine. 

“Who is it?” she asked, clinging to the soldier. 


224 


“DIZZY DAVE” 


‘^Just Dave/^ said some one. 

Dave’s eyes slowly opened. The officer again 
came forward. Dave did not see him. He was 
looking eloquently toward the couple on the machine. 

The officer put his hand upon him again. 

‘‘I arrest you,” he said. 

Then Dave looked at him. He even smiled a 
little— and shook his head from side to side. Then 
his eyes slowly closed. 


THE HORSE TRADE 



\ 



THE HORSE TRADE 


AT THE GOLDEN SWAN IN 1740 

<<4CH! just look at her eye— look at her eye, Hei- 
fert Papen— what an eye !’’ 

“Nay, then, look at her teeth, Master Schneider, 
an thou wantest somewhat to look at. ’ ^ 

“Old Heifert?— old !” He laughed derisively. 
“Well, then, how old ? She ’s as brisk as a yearling ! 
Her eye tells thee that. She ’s not above six. Nay, 
I ’ll swear to that. Oh, I challenge thee to look at 
her eye!” 

“And the off foreleg? Dost challenge me there 
also ? ’ ’ 

“Why, then, laugh, Heifert Papen, an it please 
thee to do so. Yet it is a libel— a libel on as fair a 
beast as ever stepped. There never yet was on 
bone of her splint or spavin— else I know not what 
they be. But, to any reasonable man, that eye is 
marvelous. ’ ’ 


Now, Johannes Schneider was the shrewdest Ger- 
man in all Lancaster County, and Heifert Papen 
the jolliest in all German Township. And they, or 
227 


228 


THE HORSE TRADE 


rather, the former, was trying to effect a horse 
trade — Johannes’s very evidently spavined mare for 
Heifert’s glossy black stallion. And it was at the 
coffee-house of the Widow Kr eider, named the Gol- 
den Swan, at Philadelphia, in the year 1740. 

Here Schneider had come for business and Papen 
for entertainment; and without an idea of sacrific- 
ing his handsome stallion he was yet bandying words 
in a way not without its peril where so capable a 
man at a horse trade as Schneider was concerned. 

As they stood violently bartering a girl of per- 
haps fourteen' years came out of the coffee-house 
and stood, unperceived by them, at the door. She 
was dressed in coarse linsey-woolsey, her hair hung 
in two plaits at the back of her ears, her shoes were 
of cowhide, and had wooden soles and copper 
buckles. She stood listening a moment and fidget- 
ing uneasily with her apron; and then, upon the 
heels of Schneider’s most violent declaration, broke 
out with: 

‘‘Nay, nay, master, she is spavined. The horse- 
doctor said so.” 

They were both taken by surprise. 

“Aha, ha ha! Oh!— aha, ha ha!” roared Papen. 
“Oh!— Now, by the luck of the Schneiders, this is 
most misfortunate. And by the same it is an honest 
little wench— aye, and a comely. If, my country- 
man, thou hadst such an one to throw into the bar- 
gain to give it some weight— why, I am in bonds 
to find Frau Papen a daughter, and I know not but 
this tow-headed wench might serve. Come here, my 
little one; it is worthy to be in the company of one 
who shames the devil thus by telling the truth. ’ ’ 


THE HORSE TRADE 


229 


She came to him, and he put his stubby forefinger 
under her chin and turned her face upward; it 
glowed with a confident smile. 

But Schneider had got over his astonishment, and 
now came forward with a wrathy face and uplifted 
hand. 

‘^Go! go! thou unseemly little busybody! else 
I ’11-^’ 

The little girl cowered behind Papen. 

‘‘What! For shame! Eater of sauerkraut! aha, 
ha ha! Now what is this world coming to when 
Truth must hide behind a fat Dutchman !” 

Schneider still advanced, and Papen ’s waggery 
changed to rage. 

“Nay, then, an thou strikest her I T1 strike thee 
—aye, thee. Master Schneider!” 

The valiant little Dutchman threw out his chest, 
advanced one foot, put up his fists, and then broke 
down and laughed till he was bent double. 

“A bow-legged Dutchman like me! Aha, ha ha! 
Oh, Master Schneider, thou wast afeared! Oh!— 
Oh!” 

He brought himself to decorum with a stamp of 
his foot, pulled his long waistcoat into place, and, 
turning to the other, indicated the cessation of hos- 
tilities with an amicable— 

“Well?” 

The horse-dealer’s wrath had meanwhile changed 
to his more natural cunning; he had brought the 
girl as well as the mare to town to sell, and— Heifert 
Papen was a very jolly Dutchman indeed ; but not a 
wise one. So he managed to laugh with Papen, and 
to say, as he facetiously prodded his ribs: 


230 


THE HORSE TRADE 


“Ah! thou ’rt a rare one, Heifert! Quarrel 
about a meddlesome little wench— two of the best 
men in Pennsylvania! Nay, nay! But now I ’ll 
prove thee. If —say if the wench could be bartered, 
what wouldst give for her? Eh?” 

Papen stared. 

“Ay, if; not everybody loves the truth as thou 
dost, Papen. An I would part with her what 
wouldst thou give ? ’ ’ 

“This is poor foolery. Master Schneider. It ill 
becomes thee to make such unseemly sport of thy 
child.” 

Schneider laughed. 

“Looks she like me, Papen?” 

It was Papen ’s turn to laugh now. 

“No; nor ever shall! God has not been so un- 
kind tocher. ’ ’ 

Schneider came closer and put his hand to his 
mouth. 

“Nay, then, be a fool an thou wilt; but I have her 
indenture here.” He tapped the breast of his coat. 

Papen turned to the little girl almost savagely. 

“Is this true, wench, that he hath bought thee?— 
and now would sell thee again?” 

“I— know not,” she faltered, “I know not.” 

“Know not— know not whether thou art his law- 
ful child or his si— bond-servant?” cried Papen 
fiercely. 

“No, master; but I think I be not his true child; 
for he is cruel vdth me.” 

This only made the horse-dealer, who had now 
the point of vantage, smile more broadly. 


THE HOESE TRADE 


231 


^‘So, so,’^ muttered the other; ‘^she is a redemp- 
tioner! It were an infinite pity to let her go back 
with the brute— to beatings and lyings. I vow she ’s 
as tender as comely— the little baggage ! How long 
hath she yet to serve, Master Schneider?’’ he asked 
suddenly. 

Schneider came close and whispered cunningly: 
“As long as thou wilt. She knows not and hath not 
cared to know.” 

^ ‘ How ? There ’s crime here ! Thou knowest the 
law well, Johannes Schneider.” 

“Calm thyself, my friend; she hath yet above five 
years to serve to her twenty. But when shall the 
term begin ? that is the rub ; and thereupon the law 
saith nothing. I took her as a suckling babe ; none 
else would have her, and the mother and father were 
dead. Shall a man have no hire for the bringing up 
of a puling infant ? ’ ’ 

“Nay; not for such as she hath had of thee.” 

“Well, as for that, Master Papen,” said the horse- 
trader, grimly, “she got the best I had. Thou seest 
she will not lie. This is not the first trade of horses 
she hath spoiled— if she shall— by telling the truth 
incontinently. ’T is true enough, Heifert Papen, 
that . I like it not exactly. One cannot trade horses 
if one is not content to— wink at the truth upon 
proper occasion. Is it not so, thou cunning tan- 
ner?” 

“No!” thundered Papen. 

“Well, mayhap not for a matter o’ hides.” 
Schneider shrugged his shoulders contemptuously; 
then, fearing its effect upon their bartering, he 


232 


THE HORSE TRADE 


added: ‘‘Not but it a good thing sometimes: but 
it hath its place, Heif ert Papen, it hath its place. ’ ’ 

“Aye, and plainly it hath no place in a horse- 
dealer.” To himself he said again, “It were the 
unpardonable sin to let her go back with this beast. ’ ’ 
Then, again, to the horse-dealer, “Take, Schneider, 
the stallion for the spavined mare and the wench.” 
He sighed as he said it. 

“And how much more?” 

“Ac/i/ nothing more. There ^s a flat answer for 
thee.” 

“Then I wish thee a safe journey home, Heif ert 
Papen, and a good morrow,” and the wily horse- 
trader turned calmly aside. 

“Stay— say twelve pounds besides?” 

‘ ‘ I have known them to sell at this very tavern by 
the lot for fifty— wenches like her.” 

Schneider continued on his way, but turned and 
said : 

“An thou ^rt minded to speak earnestly I will 
wait; if not — ” 

“Go thy way, soul-driver,” said Papen, with a 
wave of his hand, about to turn his back on him. 
But he caught the beseeching look of the little girl 
and paused. ‘ ‘ Stop ! I ’ll give thee fifty. ’ ’ 

But Schneider had also seen that look. 

“An thou ’It have her thou must be able to say 
one hundred pounds, my master. ’ ’ 

Heifert was about to make an angry retort; but 
again the distressed face of the little slave met his 
gaze. 

“I ’m a fool, but thou shalt have it. Ha, ha, ha! 


THE HORSE TRADE 


233 


An hundred pounds for — Faith, I ’ll turn the spav- 
ined mare into hide to-morrow if she but carry us 
home. Eh, wench ? ’ ’ 

^^Ah, Master Papen, it is I that am the fool,” said 
the horse-trader, with a hypocritical sigh. 


II 

HOME ON THE SPAVINED MARE 

But, to raise a hundred pounds among his friends 
in Philadelphia and to perfect the transfer of the 
indenture of the girl were matters requiring time 
on the part of a fat Dutchman; so that it was late 
in the afternoon when they finally took leave of 
the Dutchman from Lancaster County. He, as 
a crowning evidence of his good nature, promised 
to send by the first wagoner who left the Conos- 
toga Katerina’s chest— without a penny of expense 
to her. 

^‘Thou canst well afford it,” said Papen signifi- 
cantly. 

So, Heifert and Katerina started off to German- 
town on the spavined mare, Katerina riding behind 
with her arms as far around the front rider as she 
could get them. 

They jogged along silently a while, then a wee, 
fearful voice reached Papen from behind : 

‘^Master, will it please thee if I talk?— just a word 
—or two?” 


234 


THE HOESE TRADE 


^‘Aye, wench, an thou hast a voice use it when 
thou wilt; thou art no longer a slave.’’ 

^‘Ah!” she said, with a sigh of ecstasy, ‘‘I but 
wanted to say that I will serve thee forever!” 

‘‘Of course thou wilt, and we will be the best 
friends in this world, ’ ’ and her new master laughed, 
and, taking her small hands, drew them tightly 
around him. 

The spavined mare was not fleet of foot; so when 
they arrived at Germantown it was quite dark, and 
Frau Papen was on the high-gabled stoop looking 
anxiously southward. She was much surprised at 
the sudden looming out of the darlmess of the spav- 
ined mare with its double burden, and asked tremu- 
lously what had happened. 

“Aha, liebes fraule, these be the times when one 
may buy one’s whole family. See, I have brought 
thee a daughter, and this crow-roost of a mare, and 
left behind an hundred pounds and the finest stal- 
lion in German Township, to the worst Dutchman in 
Pennsylvania, as I ’m a Dutchman myself; and all 
because the little wench turned her blue eyes on me, 
and I remembered thy little one at the bottom of the 
sea and my promise to replace her.” 

Though the jolly Dutchman was bantering, his 
voice was glad and tender. 

“Is this all true?” asked Frau Papen, as she 
fondly received the girl. 

“Yes, yes, yes I He was so hard with me; and he 
looked so kind I ’ ’ said Katerina as she clung to Frau 
Papen ’s neck and sobbed. 


THE HORSE TRADE 


236 


‘ ‘ And yon know not whose she is ? ’ ^ the wife whis- 
pered anxiously to the husband. 

“No; I ’m a villain if I do. I asked him not.’^ 

“But art sure she is not his child T’ 

‘ ‘ Sure as that I breathe ! ’ ’ 

They spoke in whispers then, and he told her of 
the horse trade. 

‘ ‘ Oh, my husband ! I feel that this is the best bar- 
gain thou hast ever made, nevertheless.'’ 

The thin arms of the girl went closer about her 
neck and her lips were pressed silently to Frau 
Papen’s cheek in the dark. 

“And she is mine?” asked the wife. 

“Aye, she is thine.” 

“Then from this moment she is free: from this 
moment I take her for my own. ’ ’ 

“So be it: though how thou canst make her free 
and also take her for thine own— aha, ha ha!” 

A faint, smothered cry came from the girl, and 
then her arms went closer and closer, and her breast 
heaved faster and faster, until she sobbed aloud. 

Papen stole away, with his big red handkerchief 
to his nose. 

Presently the mother took Katerina up to a little 
chamber over the porch. 

“Come,” she said merrily, “let us see if we can 
find thee a nightgown; aye, here is one that I wore 
once. And to-morroTV we will find, from the same 
stock, I doubt not, a pretty gown, and a brooch, and 
a riband for thy hair; and—” as she took off the 
hard wooden shoes— “a pair of shoes more soft and 
kindly for thy feet.” 


236 


THE HORSE TRADE 


Then they knelt down and prayed— the only 
prayer the little girl knew: 

‘‘Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be 
Thy name—’’ 

Amd when it was done and they turned again face 
to face, Katerina suddenly reached up and kissed 
the face above her. Then she drew back in alarm at 
her boldness. 

“Nay, an thou shalt kiss me whenever thou wilt. 
See, I kiss thee back.” 

“ Oh ! I never saw one so good, ’ ’ cried the girl. 

“Thou art a cunning little flatterer,” said Frau 
Papen. “And now good night, my pretty one,” 
and she tucked the white covers snugly under the 
trembling chin. 

“Good— good night. Ah, what must I call thee? 
I do not like to call thee mistress.” 

“What dost thou wish to call me, then?” 

“Mother!” burst from her. 

“And so thou shalt; and I will be truly a mother 
to thee. So, one more kiss, and God keep thee and 
give thee sweet dreams.” 


Ill 

THE FALSE BOTTOM EST THE BRASS-BOUND CHEST 

It does not always happen that promises made 
under strong emotion are strongly kept. But Frau 
Papen kept hers in a way that even she had not 
dreamed of. 


THE HORSE TRADE 


237 


‘^Mother/’ said Katerina one day, “thou art very 
beautiful. Dost thou not think soT’ 

“Flatterer! No!’^ 

“Ah, but come and look in the glass.” 

She led her to the quaint little mirror. 

“Now confess that thou hast eyes blue as the sky, 
and a mouth red as the roses, and hair white as snow. 
Shall I ever be so beautiful ? ’ ^ 

“Aye, and a hundred times more so. Was ’t that 
thou wert after ?— compliments?” 

They laughed and drew together. 

“To-day thou shalt tell me something; promise, 
mother. ^ ^ 

“I promise, then, torment.” 

“There is a sadness about thy mouth to-day, and 
often thine eyes are red with weeping; what is it, 
mother ? ' ’ 

“Am I so? Why, then I must mend my ways so 
that my face shall tell the truth. Sure I grow glad- 
der every day that thou art with me.” 

“Ah, then, T is about me thou weepest— and thou 
may’st not tell?” 

“Come, then, there shall be naught between us; 
for H is of thee. Thou art not, after all, my own ; 
I live in fear that some day some one will take thee 
from me.” 

“No, no, no!” cried Katerina violently, “I would 
not go.” 

“Ah, how could we keep thee?” 

“Thou dost not love me!” 

‘ ‘ Thou hast all my love except that with the little 
babe beneath the sea. Listen : one day we took ship 


238 


THE HORSE TRADE 


—husband, babe, and me— from war-cursed Ger- 
many to this land, where there was no war, no fam- 
ine, no cruelty. The ship was crowded with the 
poor redemptioners, who, like us, were trying to get 
away from the horrors of war. These agreed to be 
sold into slavery upon their arrival here, for a term 
of years, to pay for their passage. Ship fever came 
among these ill-nourished ones, and four out of 
every five died and were cast into the sea. When 
we dropped anchor in the Delaware I was sick of the 
fever. When I recovered they told me that hus- 
band and babe were dead and that I had been sold. 
In pity Herr Papen bought me; and, finding favor 
in his eyes, I became his wife. We were not re- 
demptioners ; not only could we prepay our passage, 
we had besides two thousand pieces of gold secreted 
in the false bottom of my brass-bound chest. Yet 
were we sold with the rest to pay for the dead that 
were cast into the sea. The chest I never again saw ; 
doubtless it was stolen and plundered by the sailors, 
as so many of them were. And now for thy little 
story ; for thou hast never told it to me. ^ ^ 

‘‘Alas ! sweet mother, there is none. But is it not 
strange that I should have just such a chest?— 
heavy and black and brass-bound, was it? In it 
there are but some musty books out of which I Ve 
learned what I know. ’ ’ 

“No, it is not strange,’’ said Frau Papen. “We 
had each such a chest. They were all much 
alike. Mayhap thy parents died and left thee that. 
I am glad thou hadst as much as that. I had 
nothing. ’ ’ 


THE HOESE TRADE 


239 


From Master Schneider’s promise to its fulfilment 
was more than two years. 

Then, one day, a lumbering Conostoga wagon, 
with a body shaped like an ancient ship, drew up 
at the door and left the chest containing the 
musty books. The hireland was trying its weight 
as Frau Papen came to the door. She was gently 
crooning a song. The two years had made her very 
happy. 

^‘Ah,” she said, continuing her song between the 
words, ‘‘how familiar it looks ! There were so many 
of them— and all alike! So wide, so high, so long; 
all piled on the foredeck.” 

With her pretty white hands she was going lov- 
ingly over the curious brasswork. At one end the 
hireland was still trying to lift it. 

“Here ’s weight too much for me, mistress. 
Odd’s life! One ’d scarce believe it.” 

He walked about the chest, eying it curiously and 
wagging his head. 

“I ’ve heard of false bottoms in which weapons 
forbid by the king were carried; these be heavy— 
ay, and money: good gold,” he muttered. 

Frau Papen went on with her song, hearing him, 
but taking no account of his words. Now she laid 
hold of one of the brass handles. 

“What, Peter ! And thou, Katerina ! Take hold. 
Come, away with it to the garret ! ’ ’ she cried gaily ; 
“so shall we banish the last vestige of thy bondage. 
No? Then to thy chamber over the porch?” 

On the stairs Frau Papen had to rest. 

“Well, Peter, ’t is true that ’t is heavy. What 


240 


THE HORSE TRADE 


wast mumbling?— Sweet, thou ^rt pale!— and trem- 
bling—?” 

‘^He said there might be a— false bottom. And 
it is heavy. Is not gold heavy— very heavy?” fal- 
tered Katerina. 

Frau Papen turned upon her almost fiercely. 

‘‘Turn thy face to light!” she cried. 

Katerina did so. 

“Thy father ^s face was of that shape— his eyes 
were of that blue— ” Suddenly she pushed the girl 
off. “But the proof is here. The key— where is 
the key ? Why is it not here ? ’ ’ 

In an excitement strange both to her and Katerina 
she fell on her knees before the chest and began to 
tug at the lid. It was hopeless. 

“The key!” she cried again, almost angrily. 

Poor Katerina ! It was right at hand— on a little 
faded ribbon at her neck. But it was difficult to get 
with such trembling fingers. But presently it passed 
into the hands of the lady on the floor, and after 
many mis-shots went smoothly into the lock. Be- 
fore the lid was fairly open Frau Papen was inside 
it with head and hands. 

“Mine— mine— mine!” she cried, as she tumbled 
out upon the floor what Katerina had theretofore 
called her belongings, together with many things 
only too evidently not hers. 

“My books,” she went on, “my brooch, my combs, 
my—” 

She had reached the bottom. She fumbled a mo- 
ment at some secret fixture at the end, then pulled 
it out. 


THE HOESE TRADE 


241 


‘‘My gold!’^ she exulted. 

It was true. There they lay, packed in tight rolls 
all over the wide bottom. 

But then her excitement vanished and the peace- 
ful smile returned, more peaceful, more beautiful 
than it had ever been. The sadness was somehow 
gone from it, and it was the expression of pure joy. 
Slowly she turned toward Katerina. Very fondly 
she looked at her for a moment as if to enjoy her 
before taking possession. Then she held out her 
arms. Katerina nestled within them. They forgot 
the gold and the precious contents of the chest alto- 
gether. 

‘ ‘ Thou art mine ! ^ ’ said Frau Papen. Then, in a 
moment, “Dost thou understand, my little daugh- 
ter ? ’ ’ 

“I understand,^’ sobbed Katerina. 

“They sold thee— and the chest— to Master 
Schneider—” 

“And I bought thee!” cried Heifert Papen, at 
that moment arriving, “of that same lying Dutch- 
man! And all this gold! And— Oh, he shall 
hear of it if I have to make a journey to Lancaster 
County to tell hijga!” 


16 


# 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


4 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


I 

THE TIME OP THE TRUNDLE-BED 

J ANE an’ me wass bose orphens an’— kind a 
cousins yit. We wass brung up toget’er ofer in 
Meryland by Jane’s Aunt ’Liza. But Jane wass 
closer related fan I w^ass— I don’ know chust how. 

I expect I must ’a’ got to liking Jane when I wass 
chust a little chap. For when I got eighteen an’ 
she ’bout fourteen I wanted to git married a ’ready! 
Jane — She use’ to chust make fun when I ’d say 
anysing about it— no matter how ser’ous. 

*‘You can’t marry no one,” she says to me, laugh- 
ing— she wass ’most alwayss a-laughing— “you chust 
a infent. An’ Aunt ’Liza says you ’ll be a infent 
yit tell you twenty-one I Now sink of t ’at a minute, 
will you?— a feller ’at ’s got to be fed on pap a-talk- 
ing about gitting married — wiss me.'— all growed 
up ! Aha, ha, ha I No, sirr-ree ! I won’t marry no 
one ’at— ’at sleeps in no crib 1 ’ ’ 

She laughed ag’in— an’ I j’ined her. 

“Well,” I says, “I ’d rafer sleep in a nice new 
crib fan a ole blue trundle-bed.” 

245 


246 


'‘JANE AN' ME" 


I had t’e joke on her, an’ she laughed like efery- 
sing. 

“Why— sa-ay, Charlie, it ’s chust a little while 
sence you slep’ in t’e ole trundle-bed— me! 
My— my, Charlie, did n’t we haf’ fun t’en?” 

“Yes,” I says, “rolling each ot’er out on t’e floor 
an’ such.” 

“Don’t you recomember how t’ey had to put a 
board up atween us after while to keep us apart?” 

“Yes,” I says ag’in; “an’ don’t you recomember 
how I use’ to climb ofer an’ bose sleep on one 
side ? ’ ’ 

Jane nodded her head a little, an’ chust says: 

“Clost.” 

“We could n’t git no closter,” I says. “But you 
ain’t so fond of t’at close kind a business no more. 
It ain’t no fun in you now.” 

“Yes, it is,” Jane says, kind a sudden an’ ser’ous 
—like me. “But I wisht I ’d nefer growed up. 
Sa-ay— less go fishing!” 

“Well— if you promise to marry me?” 

“Not tell you got whiskers !” she says. 

“T’at ’s easy,” I says. “I ’ll start my whiskers 
right off.” 

“Sweet cream ’s goot,” says Jane. 

“Yes,” I says. 

“An’ cats,” says she. 

“Yes,” I says. “So we ’re ingaged?” 

“Y-yes,” says Jane, “kind of. A little ingaged. 
But mind you got to wait tell you’ whiskers a yard 
long.” 

“All right,” I says. “But you 'll go an’ marry 


*‘JANE AN' ME" 


247 


some feller wissout no whiskers whatefer, if I don’t 
look out, an’ all t’e time mine in my road.” 

Jane says : 

‘‘I ’ll nefer marry no one but you, Charlie— 
onless I like him better, or he got more whiskers. 
But exspecial if I efer like some one better ’n you — 
look out! Shut up wiss you lofe business an’ cut 
a fish-pole.” 

“T’ey all on t’e ot’er side,” I says. 

“Well,” she says, “roll up you’ britches, an’ less 
git ofer.” We wass at t’e crick. 

“Carry you?” I ast her. 

“Well,” she says, “you sink I ’m goin’ to wade 
wiss you about?” 

“Oh, Lord—” I begun. 

“Oh, well, if you ’d rat’er not—” 

“T’at wass for joy,” I says. “I ’d carry you 
acrosst a sousand— ” 

She laughed like blazes, an’ took a run an’ jumped 
on my back. T’en she spurred me up like a horse, 
an’ in we went. Well, when we got about t’e mid- 
dle of t’e crick I swung her round in front of me 
an’ kissed her. 

“Charlie,” she says, “when we git out an’ I got 
bose hands an’ feet to work wiss I ’ll kiss you. T’en 
you ’ll wish you wass dead. ’ ’ 

“Jane,” I says, “ingaged people alwayss kiss.” 

I up an’ took anot’er one. 

“I expect you mean ’at t’ey kiss alwayss.” 

“Yes,” I says. 

“I ’d forgot ’at we wass ingaged— a little,” says 
Jane, curling up in my arms like a kitten. 


248 


“JANE AN' ME" 


II 

YOU can’t eat love! 

Sunder I T ’at wass ’way back in eighteen hunderd 
an’ fifty-sefen! Don’t a feller git old quick after 
while 1 

Well, when t’e war talk got so strong efery Union 
man down in Dixie wanted to git nort’ t’e Mason 
an’ Dixon Line. Jane an’ Aunt ’Liza wass alwayss 
jawing each ot’er ’bout t’e nikker slafes— one for 
’em, t’e ot’er ag’in ’em— so ’at after while t’ey 
r’ally hated each ot’er. One day Jane come run- 
ning out to t’e spring-house, where I wass, as mad 
an’ as red as eferysing. My— my! You got no 
notion how handsome Jane wass when she wass mad 
an’ red t’at a-Avay ! 

‘^Charlie, which air you?” she hollers out, afore 
she gits to me, ‘ ‘ rebel or Union ? ’ ’ 

I ’d liked to ’a’ studied a minute, but Jane’s eyes 
flashed like Are. 

Which?’ ^ she says, like Queen Sheba. 

“Union!” I says, “by goshens!” 

I r’ally did n’t keer much whet’er I was a Union 
or a rebel. But I keered a good deal about being 
on Jane’s side. 

“I lofe you now wiss all my soul,” she says, jump- 
ing for me. I chust gat’ered her in; an’ I sought 
t’at ’s a goot time for anot’er kiss or two. Jane 
did n’t say a word, an’ I don’ know when I ’d a got 
done wiss t’at business— it wass so nice— if I had n’t 


‘‘JANE AN’ ME” 


249 


put my foot in a crock of milk. She was ofer sefen- 
teen t’en, an’ a reg’ler anchel. Sink about hugging 
such a girl, will you?— an’ kissing her— chust as 
much as you like ! 

But she cofered her mout’ wiss her hand after 
while. 

^‘Jane,” I ast, ‘^you broke t’e camel’s back, 
hah?”— meaning Aunt ’Liza. She nodded. 

‘‘We got to git out?” 

Jane nodded ag’in. 

“She says she won’t haf’ no two Unions of her 
own flesh an’ blood in her house.” 

“You kin chust bet t’at,” I remarks. “7 seen it 
long ago.” 

“I ’m glad to go,” says Jane. “I hate t’ese 
nikker drifers, no matter who t’ey air. But— but 
where kin we go to, Charlie?” 

“What you sink ’bout t’e poor-house?” 

“Can’t you sink of nossing better?” 

‘ ‘ Gitting married, ’ ’ I says. 

“Is t’at somesing better?” 

“T’ere ain’t nossing better in t’is world,” says I. 

“An’ what we go’n’ to do t’en?” she says— git- 
ting kind a mad at me. 

I chust says, nice an’ soft, like I knowed it ’d 
fetch her: 

“Lofe each ot’er.” 

“You can’t eat lofe, ken you?” 

“No,” I says, “you can’t. But—” 

“You can’t trink it, ken you?” 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ I says, ‘ ‘ you can ’t. But— ’ ’ 

“You can’t wear it, ken you?” 


250 


‘‘JANE AN^ ME” 


‘‘No,” I says another time. “But—” 

“Well, t’en— ” Jane began. 

I says, like I wass mad, too. 

Jane shut up. 

“See here, Jane, lem me talk onct, will you?” 

“Oh— all right ! I did n’t think you had anysing 
to say except ‘but.’ ” 

“Jane,” I begun, solemn as a’ owl, “you got no 
notion how— ’ ’ 

“How my nose is growing upwards?” she says, in 
a woice like mine, an’ curling her nose up wiss her 
finger. 

“Jane,” I says, “don’ do t’at— an’— listen.” 

“I don’ listen wiss my nose.” 

“Jane—” I wass bound to say it— “you got no 
notion how tall an’ handsome you air. You haf’ 
growed up like a wilier tree—” 

“Oh— oh— oh!” she says; “a weeping- wilier tree, 
not ? ’ ’ 

She pulls her hair all ofer her face. 

“No looking-glass in t’e world ken tell you what I 
see. You’ eyes is blue as t’e sky in June. You’ 
hair is like t’e corn-silk in August.” 

“You missed July,” says Jane. 

Yit— Jane wass pleased. You ken tell it on a 
woman when she ’s pleased. 

But she chust turned it off t’ere. 

“Sa-ay, I tell you where we ken go to, Charlie— 
up to Aunt Jane, which is named after me— in Penn- 
sylfany. She ’s Union, like us.” 

“But don’t you go, Jane,” I says, sticking to it, 
“wissout you marry me first. You so lofely t’em 
Pennsylfany fellers ’ll snap you up like snufft.” 


''JANE AN' ME" 


251 


‘‘You sink so?’’ says Jane. you got to 

take t’e risk if it ’s a-go’n’ to be as easy as t’at. I 
ain’t a-go’n’ to marry you right away, I ken tell 
you. I did n’t sink of t’at when we got ingaged — a 
little. I ’ll take a look at t’em Pennsylfany chaps 
first, I guess.” 

I pulled my face down about a yard, an’ says: 

“Jane, I ’m disapp’inted wiss you.” 

Jane looks around like she pitied me at last, an’ 
says, says she: 

“Well, Charlie, you ken tell t’em dangerous Penn- 
sylfany fellers ’at you got a first mor’gige on me— 
chust a small one. ’ ’ 

Well, we wrote Aunt Jane a letter, an’ she says: 
“Of course. Come along. An’ bring all t’e ot’er 
Unions you ken find down t’ere!” 

We packed our clothes t’at night yit— it wass n’t 
many— an’ t’e next morning we started off a-foot. 


Ill 

WHEN JANE SAW JESS 

AYell— t’e first sing Jane done after she seen Jess- 
Aunt Jane’s boy— was to for git ’at such a insignifi- 
kent feller like me wass alife. No-no! No, she 
did n’t neit’er. T’at ’s not exsac’ly fair to Jane. 
An’ Jane- she wass alwayss fair. She wass about 
as nice an’ kind to me as efer, I expect. But it 
wass a different kind a niceness an’ kindness from 
what she showed to Jess. T^at wass somesing she ’d 


262 


^'JANE AN' ME" 


nefer had for me— no, nor for no one else ! It was 
somesing intirely new. It changed her woice— an’ 
eyes— an’ mout’— an’ her step. She use to haf’ a 
kind a way ’at rasped on a feller’s feelings some- 
times— a little. But she lost all t’at, an’ got soft 
an’ gentle an’ joyous an’ beautiful! 

When she talked to Jess it seemed like joy bubbled 
up wiss efery word. An’ she liked to git close to 
him— an’ git hold his hand— an’ fix his hair straight 
— an’ take sreads an’ sings off his coat. An’ if he 
ast for anysing— he wass always doing t’at— she ’d 
fly to git it afore any one else could. An’— Gosh 
a-mighty! She ’d come an’ talk to me for hours 
about his nice yeller hair— an’ how he walked— an’ 
laughed— an’ how tall he wass— an’ how strong— 
an’ so on, an’ so on! I nefer seen no one so deep 
in lof e so quick ! 

Well— it wass n’t so strange as it seems a-telling 
’bout it now, so long after. He wass one t’em big, 
keerless, happy-lucky kind a fellers ’at eferybody 
likes. I liked him myself— right off. T’ere air such 
fellers about— kind a bewitching. An’ t’e worst of 
it is ’at t’em ’at eferybody likes t’at a-way don’ 
nefer keer for nobody much— not efen t’emselfes. 
Oach— t’ey don’ mean no harm, chust keerless ’bout 
such sings. An’ t’at wass Jess to a An’ t’e 

sing bot’ered Jane. She wass a little t’at a-way 
herself. But she ’d been use’ to hafing eferybody 
—me exspecial— bowing down to her like Queen 
Sheba. Jess nefer sought of such a sing— chust 
’at she was a mighty goot feller to haf’ about. 
Yit she ’d ast him ’bout a dozen times a day if he 


‘‘JANE AN' ME” 


263 


liked her. He say yes, of course. T^en she ’d 
ast him if he wass sure. He ’d say it wass nossing 
surer. So she ’d pester him tell he ’d say ^at he 
adored her, or ’at he worshiped her— or somesing 
like t’at— an’ t’en she ’d be satisfied. Yit he ’d ’a’ 
said t’at to any girl ’at wanted to hear it as bad as 
Jane— an’ wass as pooty. I ’fe heerd him say it to 
girls ’at wass n’t as pooty as Jane. 

He made a reg’ler tom-boy out Jane — wiss his 
fishing — an’ gunning— an’ swimming — an’ riding 
his wild black mare. But it done J ane goot— my ! but 
it done Jane goot. You ought ’a’ seen her eyes shine 
an’ her cheeks bloom! My! T’ey got so lifely ’at 
I got to feel like a’ ole man when I wass wiss ’em. 
But I wass only sree years older ’n Jess, an’ chust 
four older ’n Jane. 

So, pooty soon I got to be chust a hanger-on for 
’em. Chust goot to carry t’e fish-poles an’ saddle 
up t’e horses. Well — I had to be satisfied wiss t’at 
or nossing. An’— I— I wass satisfied wiss t’at. T’ey 
bose liked me better ’n any outsider. But t’at wass 
all— an’ it wass a kind a liking ’at hurts. 

“Jane,” I says one day, “we goot— chust— 
friends— yit, ain’t we?” 

‘ ‘ Charlie ! ’ ’ she says so pitiful ’at I felt mean. 

“Chust— if I ’m in t’e way—” I says. 

“You t’e best feller in t’e whole world— nearly,” 
she says. 

“It ’s a wonder you ken keep from marrying me, 
t’en,” I says— chust in fun of course. 

“Oh, Charlie- Charlie! Don’t, please don’t!” 
she begged, crying a little. 


254 


''JANE AN’ ME” 


“Don^ cry, Jane,’^ I says. wass only joking. 
I ken see how t’e land lays.” I had a big lump in 
my throat I could n’t swaller, an’ Jane kep’ on cry- 
ing. T’en, like a dogged fool, I sought mebby she 
wass crying for me— an’ swaller ed t’e lump. 

“Jane,” I says, “Jane— you— crying— for— me?” 

“Oh, Charlie,” she says, “no, no, no!” 

My heart went down in my boots an ’ up come t ’e 
lump. 

“Jane,” I says, “don’ cry no more. I ’ll nefer 
bot’er you. I ’ll help you if I ken.” 

She jumped at me an’ kissed me like old times. 
Yit I knowed it wass chust because I said t’at about 
helping her. 

“Jane,” I says, “when you go’n’ to marry Jess?” 
She looked sad an’ ashamed. “Chust account I 
want time to git away. It ’ll be like— well— like a 
reg’ler funerel for me.” 

I tried to laugh, but it wass no great go. 

“He — he ain’t ast me, Charlie. I exspect he don’ 
want me, ’ ’ she says, hanging her head. 

“Huh!” I says, “he wants you bad enough. 
Chust he ’s afeard.” 

“You sink so?” Jane ast, cheering up. 


IV 

THE UNICORNS 

I GOT away wissout lying any fut’er— I don’ know 
chust how. But one day, a little afterwards, I says 
to Jess, says I: 


'‘JANE AN’ ME” 


255 


‘‘Say, Jess, why don’ you ast Jane to marry 
you ? ’ ’ 

He chust looked at me like he wass a good bit 
surprised. 

“Iss t’at a joke?” he ast me t’en. 

“No,” I says, “it ain’t no joke.” 

‘ ‘ Ast her to marry me ? Say —what for ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Gosh a-mighty ! Don ’t you like her ? ’ ’ 

“Yes— sunderation, yes! Can’t you see t’at?” 

“Well,” I says, “do you lofe her?” 

“Yes— I expect I do. Of course I do. Efery- 
body does.” 

“T’en,” I says yit,, “you got to ast her to marry 
you— account she lofes you. I won’t let you make 
no fool of her.” 

“Charlie, you out you’ head intirely,” Jess says. 
“A feller can’t marry all t’e girls he likes, ken he?” 

“No,” I says. But chust one he lofes. An’ you 
got to sink ’bout t’is sing mighty quick, an’ do what 
I tell you. If you don’t, you an’ me won’t be no 
friends no more.” 

“Well, Charlie,” Jess says, “if you sink I ought 
to do it I will.” 

But he laughed like it wass all a joke. 

I GUESS he nefer sought no fu’t’er about it. An’ 
mighty soon it got too late to sink ’bout ’most any- 
sing except war an’ rumors of war. An’ Jess he 
took such a’ interest in all t’e soldier business ’at he 
di’n’ seem to haf’ much time efen for Jane. T’at 
kind a sing chust suited him. An’, be goshens! it 
chust seemed to suit Jane also— mebby account of 
Jess. 


256 


<^JANE AN» ME” 


At first eferybody wass more skeered of t^e Balti- 
more Rowdies t^an t’e real rebels. Efery time a lot 
of runaway nikkers ’d come up t’e Baltimore Pike 
word ’d go out ahead of ’em ’at t’e Rowdies wass 
after ’em to fetch ’em back dead or alife. An’ t’e 
farmers ’d git out t’eir pitchforks ag’in, an’ t’e fel- 
lers ’at wass lucky enough to haf ’ guns ’d break up 
some more pewter spoons an’ mold bullets. 

But after while t’ey got tired of t’at kind a sing 
—being all t’e time skeered, tell t’eir kumplexions 
wass as white as t’e wall— an’ organized t’e Emer- 
gency Guards. An’ t’at wass a picnic— t’at Emer- 
gency Guards business! At first we had all kinds 
a unicorns— homespun— hickory-jeans— anysing ’at 
wass red white and blue. An’ arms ! You ought ’a’ 
seen em! Flintlocks— horse-pistols— pikes— funny 
sword-bagonets wiss a curl in t’e end— scythes— 
chust anysing almost ’at ’d cut or shoot— or ’at had 
t’e name of doing it. 

An’ Jane wass in eferysing— yes, ’way out in front 
— mebby account of Jess. Anyhow, she jawed us so 
much about t’e fi ’penny-bit look of t’em unicorns an’ 
arms ’at one day I says, says I : 

‘‘Well, if you don’ like ’em, why don’ you git us 
some ot’ers?” 

“I will,” she says, chust as if it wass all done. ‘ 

Next night I says— chust in fun : 

“Jane, you got t’e new unicorns anywheres about 
you? I been telling t’e boyss, an’ t’ey want ’em— 
quick.” • 

“You ken tell t’e boyss ’at we ’ll haf’ ’em in ’bout 
a week,” an’, sunder! she pulls out her pocket a 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


257 


hunderd-dollar bill ^at ole Jake Bort ’at had t’e 
bank ’d give her! 

Well, she an’ ole Jake raised t’e money in short 
meter, an’ t’en t’ey went to Baltimore an’ got t’e 
nicest unicorns t’ey had in t’e whole city. Jane 
got t’e whole sing up, ole Jake said. I guess she 
sought all t’e time how nice Jess ’d look in such a 
fine unicorn. It wass a red cap wiss no rim, an’ 
chust a tossel hanging down behint— a little plue 
jacket wiss lots of gold stuff t sewed on— baggy red 
britches wiss t’e crotch ’way down about a feller’s 
knees— stuffed in yeller leggins at t’e bottom— cross- 
belts like a saw-buck— shiny ca’tridge-boxes an’ 
Imapsacks— an’ so on, an’ so on. Souafes! 

We organized a kind a battery also, an’ got Alf 
Kitz to bore out t’e ole Mexican brass cannons so ’s 
we could shoot bigger balls, an’ got ’em all polished 
up nice, an’ trained t’e horses to prance when t’ey 
pulled ’em, an’ t’en we wass ready for war— infen- 
try, artillery— an’ cafelry, when we could git enough 
horses loaned. 

Jane she use’ to drill at home wiss Jess an’ me, 
an’ she knowed more of t’e manual fan bose of us. 
She made herself a kind a female unicorn like our ’n, 
an’ had a gun an’ all. Jane looked so handsome in it 
’at fe ofer girls could n’t stand it, an’ fey all got 
’em, too. But, sunder ! none of ’em could come wissin 
a sousand miles of Jane I Oh, Jane— Jane— Jane 1 I 
ken see you now wiss fe little red cap stuck on top 
you’ yeller curls, fe little jacket wiss gold lace an’ 
buttons on, t’e red frock wiss f e yeller leggins stick- 
ing out below. An’ you’ smile, Jane, you’ laugh, 

17 


268 


“JANE AN^ ME'' 


you^ eyes— wiss onct an’ a while tears in ’em. An’— 
Shoulder arms! Right shoulder shift! Carry arms! 
Ground arms! Forwards, march! 

Eferysing wass fun t’em dayss— chust all fun. 

At first efery one wanted to be an ossifer. For 
why— t’e ossifers glittered like t’e sun, moon, an’ 
stars— mebby wiss t’e rest of t’e firmament srowed 
in yit. But Jane app’inted t’e ossifers— an’ of 
course Jess wass captain. We ’d ’a’ made him cap- 
tain, anyhow, I expect, for we wass all proud of 
Jess. But when Jane said so— you see, we had 
elected her major-general! Aha, ha, ha! Yes, 
eferysing wass chust fun t’em dayss— chust fun! 

Afterwards we drilled efery day. We could n’t 
git t’em unicorns on too often for us. Nor t’e ot’er 
people neit’er, I expect, from t’e look of it. But t’e 
Saturday afternoon parade on t’e commons wass 
t’e best. T’en we wore our white glofes an’ efery- 
sing shone an’ glittered. An’ eferybody wass out 
for miles around! An’ our girls— an’ Jane— Jane 
— Jane— wass dressed in t’eir unicorns! My, my, 
my ! A feller ’at nef er belonged to no soldier com- 
pany in sixty-one wiss Souafe unicorns on ’s got no 
idea of it— no idea whatefer ! 

Company— at-ten-ifio7i/ Company— fall in! Order 
—arms! Shoulder— arms.' Rest— arms/ Fix— 
hagonets! Right shoulder— s/l^7// Mark time! By 
t’e left wheel— by fours— forwards— MARCH ! By 
t’e double-quick— forwards— marc/i/ Charge hago- 
nets! Halt! Bite ca’tridges! U&m—caHridges! 
Ready— aim— FIRE ! 

Aha, ha, ha! But it wass n’t war— chust play— 


‘‘JANE AN' ME" 


259 


chust play. We ’ll nefer see t’e like ag’in while t’e 
world stands. Yessir! T’at wass t’e best fun we 
efer had— t’at Emergency Guards business. Nossing 
to do— nobody— but chust play soldier or watch us 
a-doing it. 

One good sing— t’e people had a’ idea ’at de Balti- 
more Eowdies wass sheered of us now instead of us 
being sheered of t’em, an’ t’eir complexions im- 
profed right off. 


V 

TUM-TE-TUM, TUM-TE-TUM ! 

Well— Pennsylf any Germans don’t sink much of 
a sing ’at ’s chust pooty an’ of no use. So, after 
while t’ey got tired of chust feasting t’eir eyes upon 
us, an’ wanted to see if we wass any goot. 

Seferel times t’ey sent us out to do guard duty 
nights— in t’e woods — which wass n’t half as funny 
as parading. T’en some fellers— durn fools— sym- 
pathizers, I expect, begun to talk about us going off 
to regular war. An’, be goshens! mighty soon t’e 
people ’at had n’t no relations in t’e company 
would n’t be satisfied wiss nossing else! Well, we 
wass n’t sorry. We had a’ idea ’at if Lincoln ’d 
chust say so we ’d march right down to Richmond 
an’ wind t’e sing up. We wanted to show ’em what 
for kind a soldiers growed in Pennsylf any. An’ we 
got t’e chance— we got t’e chance! My Gott— we 
got t’e chance! 


260 


‘‘JANE AN' ME" 


Jess wass chust crazy to go. But I notice’ ’at 
when we ’d talk about it Jane wass more an’ more 
quiet, an’ her eyes ’d shine in a hungry kind a 
way, an’ she ’d go off to bed. Aunt Jane ast me 
onct to not make Jane cry so. 

‘ ‘ How d ’ you know she cries ? ” I ast her. 

‘ ‘ Her piller ’s wet ef ery night, ’ ’ says she. ‘ ‘ Shut 
up about t’e war business a little more. Don’t you 
see ’at she can’t go, an’ it ’s breaking her heart?” 

I boned Jess ag’in about asting her to marry him, 
an’ he says, says he: 

“I tole you, Charlie, ’at I ’d sink about it, an’ 
t’at ’s what I ’m doing.” 

‘‘Well,” I says, “I wisht you ’d hurry up afore 
she breaks her heart in a large number of small 
pieces— according to t’e gospel of Aunt Jane” — 
chust in fun— chust in fun. 

Well— t’e upshot of it wass ’at some one sent 
word to Washington ’at we had a nice soldier com- 
pany ’at could n’t wait to go to t’e front, an’ Lin- 
coln sent for us right off. 

So, one night we wass paraded on t’e square wiss 
t’e ole "brass band an’ t’e ole brass cannons an’ t’e 
flags an’ eferysing. T’ey had a banner ’t had on it: 

WE AIR COMING, FAT’ER ABREHAM 

We marched to t’e ole market-house ’at was like 
a bridge, an’ ole Jake Bort got on a meat-bench— 
he wass a little kind a man— an’ made a flery speech 
right at us. 

“I don’ want t’is insurrection to be crushed wiss- 


'‘JANE AN' ME” 


261 


out US sharing in t’e glory of it. People air begin- 
ning to sink you chust play soldiers an’ ’at you 
afraid to fight. But, boyss, I know better. I know 
it ’s no soldiers under t’e glorious ole fiag ken fight 
like yous. But I want you to go out an’ do it. An’ 
don’ you go under no false pretenses. Some of yous 
standing afore me will nefer come back. But what 
nobler end— if it must be— could you ast for fan 
to die, sword in hand, for you’ country? Now, 
who ’ll be fe first of fe Emergency Guards to vol- 
unteer to stop playing an’ fight?” 

“I!” says Jess, right in front of him, quick as 
lightning. 

Ole Jake shook his head an’ laughed. 

‘‘I wass sure of you, Jess,” he says. 

Well— one by one efery man stepped out an’ said 
he ’d go. 

An’ when fe last— little Billy Winters— Be gosh- 
ens! you ought a heerd fe ole band! I actually 
sought fey ’d blow t’e Dutch horns to pieces. Some 
of fe shingles did rattle ofi! t’e rooft, fey say. T’e 
chune wass fe ole standby: 

Oh say ken you see 

By te dawn's airly light ? 

chust a kind a tum—tumtnm—tum-te-t\im\ Also 
t’e cannons fired a salute. T’e artillery fellers 
wass alwayss jealous of us, anyhow, ’at we did n’t 
gife ’em no chance. An’ last of all when fe racket 
got quiet, t’e girls sung. I liked fat best of all. 
Jane wass right out in front— but she wass n’t sing- 
ing. An’ I noticed ’at sometimes she ’d put her 


262 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


head down an’ her han’kercher up. When we got 
home she wass in bed a ’ready. Aunt Jane whispers 
to me: 

“She ’s cried herself asleep an’ awake a couple 
times. ’ ’ 

Well, one day afterwards it wass a big handbill on 
t’e market-house; 

ATTENTION, EMERGENCY GUARDS 

BY ORDER OF t’e 

President of t’e United States 
AND t’e 

Gofernor of Pennsylfany 
t’e command will leafe 
On Sunday Next 
for 

T’E FRONT 

But we wass politely requested also to leafe t’e 
cannons at home! Sunder, but t’e artillery fellers 
wass mad! T’ey wass pooty proud of t’eir shiny 
cannons, an’ t’ey swore t’ey would n’t go wissout 
’em. But t’ey wass all wiss us when we left. 


''JANE AN^ ME« 


263 


VI 

“to all whom it may consarn’’ 

It wass about t^e nicest-looking soldier company 
I efer seen— on t^e square t’e next Sunday morning. 
Nobody r’ally felt bad. Chust some made out so 
account t^ey had a woman or two hanging round t’e 
neck ^at would n^t ’a’ been satisfied wissout. T’at ’s 
funny anyhow ’at t’e women alwayss got to do t’e 
crying an’ regretting. T’e men ’at wass n’t going 
chust hung ’round t’e outside an’ cracked jokes 
about us being “Emergency men,” an’ going on a 
picnic at t’eir expense, an’ so on. Yit I took notice 
’at t’e most sorry an’ t’e least talkers wass t’e 
mot’ers ’at had boyss in t’e ranks. 

Jess had to make a little speech when t’ey pre- 
sented t’e colors. He could n’t make no speech, 
he said so ; but Jane helped him to git it up on Sat- 
urday night, an’ made him I’arn it by heart. He 
chust said ’at he accepted t’e fiag solemnly— as t’e 
emblem of t’e feelings of his neighbors an’ friends, 
t’eir trust an’ honor in him an’ his command. 

“I pledge you ’at it shell nefer go down in no 
dust as long as one of your own Emergency Guards 
iss left to hold it up. An’ glorious as it now iss, I 
swear to you ’at it shell come back to you more 
glorious. If not, you will know ’at no one iss left to 
bring it back, an’ t’at it has fallen as we haf’ in t’e 
noblest cause ’at Gott efer sent a man an oppor- 
tunity to gif’ his life for.” 


264 


‘‘JANE AN» ME” 


T’e last part wass n’t in Jane’s speech! An’ as 
he spoke it his face wass full a kind a light. I nefer 
seen it t’at a- way afore. But afterwards— when a 
fight wass going on— t’en I seen it— t’en I seen it. 
Anyhow, he wass t’e handsomest soldier boy I efer 
knowed. Chust eighteen, an’ his unicorn looked like 
he growed up in it. An’ long.yeller hair ’at his 
mammy made him wear t’at a- way— like when he 
wass chust a little chap. An’ he ’d nefer shafed, an’ 
had little patches of white whiskers scattered about 
his face. Yit he looked brafe as a lion— an’ keerless. 

‘‘Boyss,” he says, turning ’round to us, “is t’at 
right?— t’at about t’e flag?” 

We give him a cheer. 

“Yes— yes— yes I Hurrah— hurrah— hurrah I ” 

By t’is time Jess ’d got down, an’ Jane— as usual 
— wass dost to him. He wass nicer to her t’at day 
fan I efer seen him. T’ey walked away a little, an’ 
I seen ’at he wass bending an’ whispering to her. 
Suddenly I seen Jane blush an’ trimble. T’en she 
looked up at Jess. I knowed what had at last hap- 
pened. Jess put his arm around her afore efery- 
body, an’ no one efer saw more happiness in a face 
fan wass in Jane’s fat minute. 

Chust t’en Jess’s mammy come up— a little late. 

“Now, Jess,” she says, “don’ you fool wiss no 
guns— an’, Jess, don’ you haf’ ’em loaded onless 
you actually must. T’at ’s t’e way to avoid acci- 
dents wiss ’em. Take good keer you ’self, an’ nefer 
forgit to say you’ prayers nights.” 

Jess laughed an’ kissed his mammy on bose 
cheeks. 


'‘JANE AN' ME 


265 


‘‘Don’ yon worry ’bout me, mammy. I ain’t 
going near where t’ere ’s a fight wissout it ’s some- 
body behint me pushing. I don’ like fights, do I, 
Charlie?” 

I lied for him like he wanted me. 

“No,” I says, “he ’s a coward.” 

“An’ I ’ll alwayss look for a nice big tree when 
it ’s anysing dangerous going on.” 

“Suppose t’ere ain’t no trees?” says his mammy. 

“A feller ken alwayss dig a hole in t’e ground, 
ain’t so, Charlie?” 

“Well, I hope so,” says his mammy in good air- 
nest. “An’, Charlie, see ’at you help him. T’e 
ground might be stony. ’ ’ 

Jane stood by saying nossing, chust looking happy 
— happy — happy! An’ wiss her arm srough Jess’s 
an’ her head ag’in his shoulder a little. 

After a while Jess looks down at her an’ smiles. 

Suddenly, like he ’d forgot about it afore, he 
pulls all our heads toget’er an’ puts his own in t’e 
middle an’ vispers: 

“Sa-ay! To all who it may consarn, Jane an’ 
me ’s ingaged! Took place t’is blessed minute. 
She ’s go’n’ to stay wiss you, mammy, an’ wait tell 
we git back— ’bout a mont’ or so— t’en it ’s go’n’ 
to be a wedding, an’ t’e unfortunate wictims of t’e 
sad affair will be me— an’ Jane yere. Sa-ay, how 
you like t ’at, mammy ? Charlie, how you like t ’at ? ” 

“I like t’at first-rate,” says his mammy; “see ’at 
you come right back an’ ’tend to it.” 

I said somesing, too — I don’ know what. 

“All right,” says Jess. “As soon as t’is cruel 


266 


“JANE AN^ ME” 


war is ofer we 11 git married an’ die happy an’ 
old.” 

His mammy turns round to me. 

‘‘Charlie,” she says, “you older an steadier ’n 
Jess. I expect you to take keer he don’ do anysing 
foolish, an’ I expect you to bring him back to me an’ 
Jane. You hear?” 

“Yes,” I says. 

“Well, promise.” 

An’ I promised to do it. 

T’at satisfied her, an’ she turns ’round an’ looks 
at ’em an’ says yit: 

“Ain’t he han’some!” 

“Yes,” I says. 

“An’ Jane— ain’t she lofely?” 

“Yes,” I says. 

“I expect you nefer see no one so handsome nor 
so lofely. Well, good-by, Charlie.” She kissed me. 
“He ’s all I got. Bring him back, or I don’ want to 
see you no more, neit’er.” 

An’ Jane— Jane she came also an’ said I should 
bring him back, ’at he wass all she got ! 

“An’ you don’ want to see me neit’er wissout 
Jess?” I ast her. 

She did n’t answer. Chust she said: 

“Sink of a saber-cut acrosst his face. Charlie, if 
you let him git cut or killed !— No, I don’ want to 
see you ag’in wissout him!” 

“I ’ll do t’e best I ken,” I says, wiss a kind a feel- 
ing in my breast. 

No one seemed to keer what happened to me— 
chust Jess— all t’e time Jess. Jane knowed what I 
wass sinking, I guess. 


“JANE AN' ME” 


267 


'‘Poor Charlie/’ she whispered, coining dost like 
ole times. "Poor— poor ole Charlie!” 

T’at fixed eferysing. 

"Forgife me, Jane—” 

"For nossing,” says she as quick. 

"I ’ll bring you back what ’s left of him—” 

Jane looked skeered. 

"No!— t’e whole of him!” 

"Don’ you worry,” I says; "it won’t be no fight- 
ing. We ’ll chust march down in Wirginny an’ 
skeer t’e Johnnies out t’eir boots an’ come right off 
home, an’ bring t’e boots along.” 

Chust in fun— chust in fun. But it was somesing 
about me, I expect, ’at wass n’t as funny as t’e 
words. For Jane chust looked sad, an’ says ag’in 
t’at a- way: 

"Poor Charlie— poor ole Charlie!” 

T’at wass her last words to me, an’ I ain’t forgot 
’em yit. 

Well— well— Oh— T’en ole preacher Heilman 
got on a meat-bench an’ made a little prayer. 

You nefer seen him, of course, but he look a goot 
bit like Abe Lincoln— not pooty, but tall, an’ wiss 
such a deep, slow woice. He held his hands out ofer 
us a goot while wissout saying anysing, an’ wiss his 
eyes closed. Tears wass running down his ole face, 
an’ t’e sun wass shining on it. His two boyss wass 
in t’e ranks, an’ mebby he knowed what wass com- 
ing better ’n we did. Yit, after while he says— 
slow an’ trembly: 

"Gott of Battles, take t’ese, t’e issue of our loins, 
t’e flower of our simple lifes, into t’y holy keeping. 
Send t’em back to us. T’ey air our all. Yit— if 


268 


''JANE AN' ME” 


t’is be not in t’y infinite purposes— t^en— Father in 
heafen! — Fat’er Abreham, we offer t’em to fee as 
our sacrifice. Do wif fern as fou wilt. Amen.” 

It seem like be could n’t say no more— cbust kep’ 
a-holding out his hands tell fey fell down. 

When eferysing wass quiet ag’in, Jess wafes his 
sword and says out loud : 

“Company— at- tension/ Company— fall m.” 

I looked up and down fe lines as fey formed. 
What a nice lot of boyss— chust boyss— fey wass! 
Happy as larks 1 Mebby if fey ’d ’a’ knowed efery- 
sing it ’d been different. Yit— yit— when fey got 
under fire— fose nice, apple-faced boyss— fey stayed 
— efery one of ’em— and fought like fey ’d been 
brought up to it. Yes— an’ wass gay an’ happy as 
efer— what wass left of ’em. 

When we wass all ready to mofe, paraded fat way 
in two ranks, Bill Wagner, f e photograft man, came 
an’ took our pictur’s. Efery family in t’e town has 
one of fern. But, fen— 

“Shoulder— arrms ! By fe left wheel— by fours 
-f orwards-MAECH 1 ’ ’ 

So— off we went to war. 

It seemed a little sudden at last. I felt a kind a 
sinking in my insides. T’e sing was fine, fough, I 
ken tell you. T’e old band, wiss fe long horns 
shined up like gold, wass ’way out in front. Next 
come t’e cannons, chust as shiny, Twelfe gray 
horses wass pulling ’em— an’ prancing like in pic- 
tur’s of war. T’e cannoneers wass setting up on 
fe caissons wiss folded arms, an’ sabers between 
t’eir legs, like grafen images. Next came fe flag 


‘‘JANE AN' ME” 


269 


all by itself, one holding it an’ two ot’ers guarding 
it. She look’ fresh as a sunrise on t’at Sunday 
morning— t’e flag did. Next come us— stepping 
backwards— holding our shiny new swords in bose 
hands— an’ yelling all toget’er to t’e men: 

“Left-?e/^-left-ic/^/” 

An’ last came all t’ose we wass leafing behint— 
Jane— Jane— Jane ! Sousands of ot’ers, but chust 
one Jane. I saw her in t’e crowd behint. But she 
wass n’t looking at me. An’ Jess wass n’t looking 
at her. He wass watching t’e feet of t’e soldiers, 
an’ saying: “Left— left— left !” 

T’e ole band started up “T’e Girl I Left Behint 
Me,” an’ right away some one started singing. T’ey 
all j’ined in like t’e rushing mighty wind of t’e 
Bible. I nefer heerd no such singing afore nor 
sence. It made t’e ole Guardian Hills shake an’ echo 
— mebby for t’e first time sence t’ey wass created, 
w’at I know. Gott A ’mighty! it wass— uplifting 1 
We felt like soldiers t’at day. Yit we did n’t know 
what soldiers wass 1 


VII 

GUNS FOR THE GENERAL ’s BREAKFAST 

T’at wass t’e last of t’e Emergency Guards. 
When we got to Washington we wass nossing but 
“Co. K, 87 P. V.” Chust a drop in a big bucket. 
We wass n’t so sure no more about licking t’e rebels 
out t’eir boots, an’ we had n’t no Souafe unicorns— 


270 


'<JANE AN’ ME” 


chust plain blue ones. Colonel Williams said Vey 
wass t’e nicest unicorns he had efer seen, but t’e 
Wirginny mud ^d spile ’em, an’ we ’d better send 
’em home to use after t’e war wass ofer. I seen 
him wink to some ot’er ossifers ’bout ’at. But 
we done it— an’ I got mine yit. Yes— yes, it wass 
chust iron cannons down t’ere, an’ sings did n’t 
look so shiny. But it looked like war, too— only 
a diiferent kind o’ war— t’e kind ’at ’s not play 
but hell. 

None of us wass quite so happy afterwards— ex- 
cept Jess. T’e nearer we got to t’e real sing, t’e 
better Jess liked it. 

About t’e only sing we kep’ ’at we brung along 
wass t’e flag. 

Well, you would n’t sink Jess wass much of a 
fighter from t’at nice pictur’ of hisn in his Souafe 
unicorn. But you ’d make a mistake. After he got 
a taste of it he fell in lofe wiss it, an’ says he ’s 
found his trade, an’ ’at he ’s go’n’ to stick to it an’ 
git to be a major-general. An’ t’at flag of ourn! 
—I sink ’at after a while Jess got to lofing it t’e 
way J ane wanted him to lofe her. It wass alwayss in 
sight w^’en we went in action, an’ t’e best man in t’e 
lot wass always color-bearer. Yit— after t’e worst 
fighting, Jess ’d set at t’e camp-fire an’ play an ole 
accordeon— an’ sing funny songs, an’ tell nikker 
stories ! 

Well— w’en our sree mont’s ’wass up Jess got us 
all to inlist for t’e war. We ’d ’a’ done it anyhow, 
I guess, for we all sought efen t’en ’at it would soon 
be ofer. 


“JANE AN» ME” 


271 


By t’e time we got to Antietam Jess wass a major 
commanding. 

It wass a little battery down by t’e bridge ^at 
had been worrying our diwision a couple hours, an^ 
Colonel Jennings come to Jess an ^ says, says he: 

“Major, I ’d like to haf’ t’em guns for t’e gen- 
eral’s breakfast in t’e morning.” 

Jess saluted an’ says: 

“What ’ll you gif’ me if I git ’em for you?” 

“Nossing,” says t’e colonel. 

“I hate to work for pay,” says Jess; “let alone 
for nossing.” 

“All right. Mebby some ot’er feller—” 

All chust in fun, of course, for Jess had his arms 
buckled on a ’ready, an’ t’e colonel knowed he ’d 
nefer miss such a chance. 

In about a haif-hour t’e battery wass silent, an’ 
Jess wass back. He had a bloody han’kercher 
round his head. 

“Colonel,” says he, “I could n’t bring t’e guns 
wiss me, account t ’ey all dismounted. But I brung t ’e 
gunners for t’e general. He ken digest ’em easier.” 

“How many men haf ’ you lost?” 

“ Twenty-sree, sir.” 

“You spiked t’e guns?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very goot. I ’ll haf’ to find somesing else for 
t’e general’s breakfast. Air you bad hurt? I con- 
gratulate you bose on your escape from injury an’ 
upon t’e fact ’at t’e general has sent for you. In 
t’e meantime he has permitted me to salute you as 
colonel.” 


272 


“JANE AN’ ME^’ 


“What?’' says Jess. 

“Colonel,” says t’e ot’er ossifer, “you will pro- 
ceed to headquarters at onct.” 

His men— what wass left of ’em— gafe him a cheer 
as he went away. 

T’at night I wass writing home, an’ Jess come in 
my tent an’ ast me to tell ’em ’at he wass a colonel 
brefet. 

“Well— why don’t you write?” I says. “Jane ’d 
be mighty glad to hear from you.” 

“Oh— I ’ll write to-morrow,” he says. But he 
nefer wrote at all about it. 

I did n ’t see so much of J ess after t ’at tell it come 
on Chancellorsville. He wass commanding a rigi- 
ment t’en, an’ our ole Company K wass in it. Jess 
would n’t accept t’e rigiment wissout us in it. It 
wass anot’er Sunday morning, an’ we wass standing 
dost toget’er ag’in, waiting for t’e word to advance. 
T’e rebel artillery had opened right on us about ten 
minutes afore, an’ it wass about as hot as anysing 
I ’d seen up to t’at time. 

“Jess,” I says, “I ’ll tell Banes to bring up you’ 
horse, an’ you ken stand behint him. It ’s chust as 
easy standing behint a horse as not.” 

He chust laughed like eferysing. 

“W’at ’s t’e matter, Charlie? You gitting 
skeered at last ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” I says, “I am. Ain’t you?” 

“I don’ know. I ain’t sought much about it. 
It ’s a good chance yere to git anot’er brefet. What 
you sink? Mebby a brigadier.” 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


273 


I says, you recomember what you 

tole t’e mammy an^ Jane about trees an’ holes in t’e 
ground? You ought to be square wiss ’em, Jess.” 

He chust laughed— like he ’d bust. 

‘‘We did n’t know nossing t’en, did we, Charlie? 
Holes? T’e kind a holes we ’ll git in ’ll be dug by 
some one else. An ’ when we git in ’em we ’ll stay — 
aha, ha!— shell t’ere! Look out! All right— it ’s 
past. ’ ’ 

“An’ Jane?” I ast. 

“She ’s a nice girl.” 

A shell struck in t’e hill abofe us, an srowed dirt 
all ofer us. 

“It iss go’n’ to be hot in t’ere,” says Jess, spit- 
ting ground out his mout’. 

Chust t’en come t’e “Adwance” we ’d been wait- 
ing for, an’ Jess wass t’e commander all ofer in a 
minute. He went in at t’e head of his men wiss his 
cap on his sword. Chust before he disappeared in 
t’e artillery smoke he saw me behint him closing up 
t’e gaps in t’e ranks ’at t’e grape wass making. He 
slung a kind a kiss back. I nefer seen him look so 
glorious. 


VIII 

* 

JESS NEVER GOT BACK 

Jess nefer got back. I did n’t git back myself tell 
night, an’ t’en on a stretcher. Chust we safed t’e 
colors. It took ’most half t’e rigiment— dead and 
wounded— to do it. 


18 


274 


^‘JANE AN^ ME” 


I wass nefer in such a hell ! We fought srough 
burning woods — up an’ down red-hot hills — in 
smothering smoke— dust— ditches— wissout no disci- 
pline— or commanders— hand to hand— like defils— 
advancing — retreating — killing— surrendering ! 

When I got out t’e hospital t’ere wass a briga- 
dier’s brefet a- waiting for Jess, t’ey tole me, an’ a 
littler one for me. 

We tried hard to find him efen amongst t’e dead. 
But nossing was efer seen or heerd of him after 
t’at glorious charge. An’ I knowed t’en, an’ I 
know now ’at t’at ’s t’e way he ’d ’a’ wanted to 
die. 

I lost my arm t’at Sunday, an’ had a right to a 
furlough. But I wass afeard to go home wissout 
Jess. I use’ to dream in t’e hospital of Jane an’ t’e 
mammy saying t ’at a-way : ‘ ‘ Bring him back. He ’s 
all I got. Don’ come back wissout him.” An’ I ’d 
hear t’at prayer of t’e ole preacher— bose of his 
boyss was dead— an’ t’en I ’d see Jess disappearing 
in t’e smoke of t’e cannons wiss his cap on his sword 
an’ his face all shining an’ glorious. T’en I ’d 
recomember t’at ot’er Sunday morning on t’e 
square— 

I could n’t do it. I ’d rather face Lee’s cannon 
fan Jane’s eyes. So I fought srough fe whole war 
—tell I was tired of fighting. My Gott A ’mighty, 
how tired I wass of it! But at last I had to go 
home. T’e war wass ofer, an’ I had nowheres else 
to go to. 


'‘JANE AN' ME" 


275 


Chust four of US got off t^e cars ’at brung us up 
from t’e Grand Refiew. An’ we bad n’t on no 
Souafe unicorns— chust faded blue. An’ we had n’t 
no red cheeks no more, but we looked old, an’ felt 
older ’n we looked. An’ tired— I nefer was so tired 
in all my life! An’ cripples— we wass all cripples. 

T’e ole brass band — what wass left of it— wass at 
t’e cars to meet us. It wass ’most all bass now— 
’most all bass. An’ t’e ole brass battery wass t’ere 
shinier ’n efer, wiss t’e twelfe white horses in, an’ 
t’e cannoneers setting up as straight as efer. But 
t’ey wass n’t t’e same cannoneers. T’e ot’ers wass 
dead. An’ sousands an’ sousands of people— most 
of ’em growed up senee we went away. All t’ere 
to meet chust us four cripples 1 We all cried, I sink. 
T’e band cried so it could n’t play for a while. 

‘‘Boyss,” I says, ^‘t’is iss all foolishness. Let ’s 
mofe. I ’m t’e ranking ossifer, so— Fall in! Front 
—face! By t’e right wheel— by fours— forwards — 
march! By fours!” 

We fell in behint t’e battery, an’ I tole t’e color- 
bearer to unfurl t’e colors. Oh, Gott in Heafen, how 
t’ey cheered an’ cried an’ yelled when t’ey seen t’eir 
ragged ole flag ! Some run in an’ hugged an’ kissed 
it chust like it wass alife. We had brung it back- 
yes. An’ it wass more glorious fan when we went 
away— yes. But t’ey wass sinking of somesing fey 
had n’t sought of fen— fe cost! It wass chust a’ 
ole rag, but ninety-six men had died under it. An’ 
I guess it spoke to f ese people of all f ose ninety-six. 


276 


‘‘JANE AN' ME” 


T’e ole band struck up a chune— ^^Home, Sweet 
Home!” Oh, Gotti Oh, Gott Almighty! If you 
nefer been to war you don^ know what t’at iss— t’at 
“Home, Sweet Home.” Down in Wirginny when 
any one ’d sing t’at chune we ’d sink of beds — 
warm beds an ’ hot coffee. But now I was sinking of 
chust Jane an’ t’e ole mammy an’ t’e home we use’ 
to haf ’ so long ago— it seemed like a sousand years. 
An’ t’e home we had planned to haf’ when t’e war 
was ofer— an’ nefer would haf’. 

I kep’ my eyes “front,” so ’s I would n’t see ’em. 
But as we marched apast, some one looked in my 
face as if she wass n’t sure, an’ t’en she grabbed my 
arm. She wass changed intirely. But I knowed 
her right off. 

“Where ’s Jess?” she ast, short an’ sharp, as 
of old. 

I had been expecting t’at for four years. Yit it 
wass like a cannon-ball in my breast. She did n’t 
know he wass dead. 

“Oh,” I says, lying, “He ’ll be along some of 
t’ese days, I expect. Generals ken do as t’ey like. 
T’ey don’t take no account of chust majors.” 

“Of course,” she says, straightening up like a 
soldier on parade, “of course. He may be here any 
day. We ’ll keep his place at t’e table, an’ haf’ his 
bed ready made up for him.” 

Jane did n’t say a word— chust looked srough 
an’ srough me. 

“Don’t you sink,” says Aunt Jane, “’at we ’d 
better haf’ his bed made up right away— Jane?” 

“Yes,” says Jane, in a kind a dream. 

“T’en come along home.” 


'‘JANE AN' ME" 


277 


IX 

? 

T^ey done t’at for more twenty-fife years. His 
plate iss alwayss ready at t’e table, an’ when t’ey set 
down to eat t’ey fold t’eir hands an’ look t’at way 
like Jess wass t’ere saying his little grace. His ole 
blue slippers has been warming at t’e fire all t’at 
time, an’ his bed is alwayss ready to chust roll in. 

After while t’e neighbors ’d pull me behint some- 
sing an’ tell me ’at bose Aunt Jane an’ Jane wass 
hipped ’bout Jess’s coming home. But t’at ’s not 
so. T’ey as sensible as me. Anyhow, I ’d ketch 
myself efery now an’ t’en, when t’e door ’d open, 
putting my hand to my ear— I don’t hear so well 
no more— to ketch t’e sound of Jess’s footsteps. I 
seen him go into t’at hell on t’at Sunday morning. 
But how do I Icnow ’at he ’s dead ? 

Fife years ago t’e mammy died. 

“He may come yit, Charlie,” she says to me chust 
afore. “He may come yit— what you sink?” 

But it wass a’ interrogation point at t’e end for 
t’e first time, an’ I could n’t look in her dim ole 
eyes an’ lie. 

“He liked me best— t’en Jane— t’en you, Charlie. 
I wanted us all to be toget’er when he comes. But 
Jane ken wait in my place, an’ you ken help her — 
you ken help her. He may come any day. Tell 
him when he comes ’at I waited— as— as long as I 


278 


“JANE AN’ ME” 


could. Tell him I kep^ everysing ready chust ex- 
actly like afore he went away. Nossing changed— 
not a sing changed. A little ole-fashioned, mebby, 
for a great general, but I know he ^d rat ’er haf ’ ’em 
fan new ones. Becauss he ken go to bed in t’e 
dark— chust like he use’ to— chust like he use’ to— 
if he iss a great general. Yes— tell him I waited as 
long as I could, an’ now Jane ’ll wait, an’ keep his 
sings ready chust like I did. It ’s a hard business 
fat waiting— waiting. But two ken do it better ’n 
one. An’ now she ’ll wait tell he comes, no matter 
how long, won’t you, Jane?” 

‘^Tell I die,” says Jane, soft an’ quiet. 

^‘An’ Charlie ’ll help you,” she says yit. 

Jane an’ me rode home from fe funeral toget’er. 

^^Jane,” I says, as pleading as I could, ‘‘Jess 
won’t nefer— ” 

“Ifws/i.'” she says, flashing lightning at me out 
her eyess. 

“Jane,” I says, “forgife me.” 

She turned an’ looked at me. Her face wass like 
a sad anchel’s fen. I stroked her hand a little, 
an’ she let me. Presently she says, chust wiss a 
sigh: 

“Poor Charlie— poor ole Charlie.” 

I kep ’ a holt her hand. 

“Jane,” I says, I help you to wait?” 

For a while she did n’t say anysing. T’en two 
tears rolled down her face. She give my hand a 
little squeeze, an ’ says chust : 

“Yes.” 


<‘JANE AN' ME" 


279 


She ’s waiting for him yit— hose of ns air. We 
set by t^e fire nights, an’ sometimes we talk, an’ some- 
times we don’t. I like t’at, an’ I sink mebby Jane 
does. Our cheers haf’ been gitting closter an’ 
closter all t’e time. Seems like t’ey can’t git much 
closter now. Sometimes we laugh out loud. An’ 
sometimes Jane lets me hold her soft ole hand. Onct 
or twict I kissed it. I ’d like to kiss her. But I 
guess she would n’t let me— yit. Last year she cried 
a little as I tole her ’bout t’e war— an’ quick hugged 
my empty sleefe. But t’at wass all— t’at wass all 
she done. An’ she has n’t done it sence. 

You ’d hartly know Jane from t’e ot’er descrip- 
tion of her. She ’s ofer fifty years old. But she ’s 
not a ole woman— not efen middle-aged. She ’s as 
handsome as efer. Yessir ! Sometimes I sink she ’s 
handsomer. Her lips air red— her eyes air bright— 
an’ she ’s nice an’ plump. She keeps dressed up all 
t’e time— account Jess use’ to like t’at. I expect t’e 
frocks she wears an’ t’e way she fixes her hair is a 
little ole-fashioned. She ain’t changed ’em much. 
T’e only sing she worries about is her hair. It ’s 
gitting right gray. She sinks ’at when Jess comes 
home he ’ll be like t’at pictur’ in his Souafe uni- 
corn— she ’s so used to it! An’ me— I don’ tell her 
no different— chust help her to wait. 



THE DREAM WOMAN 



THE DREAM WOMAN 


I 

‘‘just before the battle’’ 

T hey were nursing a handful of coals between 
them in a hole behind the intrenchments. Kelly 
looked off toward the sea where the sun would pres- 
ently rise. 

“We ’ll have some hot work, I expect, as soon as 
they can make us out, ’ ’ he mused sleepily. 

“Yes,” answered Gordon absently. He was star- 
ing into the little fire. 

“Still dreaming?” smiled the older soldier. 
Gordon’s face frankly confessed it. 

“The thing a soldier dreams of before going into 
battle is a woman.” 

Kelly spoke so softly that Gordon looked up. But 
he said nothing. 

“Sometimes it is his mother—” 

Gordon wondered upon him again. 

“My mother is dead,” said he. 

Kelly smiled at him. 

“You should have been a poet— not a soldier.” 
“All poets are soldiers. They have made war 
glorious.” 


283 


284 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


“That is why they call you ‘Sweet Devil/ I sup- 
pose— because of the poetry in your soul and the 
glory of your sword/’ gibed Kelly, gently, quite 
awake now. 

But he saw that he had made Gordon uncomfort- 
able. 

“Who is the woman?” 

Gordon tried to be frigid. 

“Oh, don’t! Can’t you see that I want an excuse 
for talking about— mine? We all have these mo- 
ments before a battle. And you are the only man I 
can talk to in that way. I knew from the first that 
you were an ass like me. That ’s why I put you on 
my little staff. ’ ’ 

Gordon showed his amazement. 

“Yes, grizzled, fighting old Kelly!” . He, too, 
looked into the fire a silent moment. “I was to go 
with Custer to the Little Big Horn. She asked me 
not to go. I feigned illness. I wish I had n’t. 
She ’s dead.” He shook himself. “I would n’t 
give a hang for a man who does n’t adore some 
woman. He can fight better— he can do anything 
better. And— God bless him!” 

“Mine,” said Gordon, as if continuing Kelly’s 
mood, beguiled by it, “is only a dream. I have 
never seen her. But she lives, I know, and I shall 
some day meet her. I have dreamed her just as I 
would have her. I shall wait for her.” Gordon 
smiled. 

Kelly reached his hand across the little fire. An- 
other attack of amazement held Gordon an instant. 
Then he took it. 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


285 


“This is before the battle. When that comes it 
will be different with both of us. Now we are men. 
Then we will both be devils— and not sweet ones, 
either. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I don T know, * ^ said Gordon. ‘ ‘ It is my first— ^ ^ 

“I know,’’ said Kelly. “It may be my last.” 

The sun leaped above the sea with theatrical sud- 
denness. Kelly put the tin cups on the fire. 

“We ’ll have some coffee to make courage for us 
till we are in it. Then we won’t need coffee.” 

The light showed them both covered with the mud 
and grime of hasty campaigning. Kelly stood up 
and looked off toward the painted-seeming jungle. 

“I think we cleaned that last night.” 

* ‘ I think so, ’ ’ said Gordon. 

He, too, stood up— dreaming of something else. 

From somewhere came the wiry “whew” of a 
Mauser bullet. Gordon dropped and spilled the 
coffee. 

“Little things like that are useful. They tend to 
make one think of the very present. Oh !— not hit, 
are you?” 

Gordon’s face was white, and he was pressing his 
chest. 

Kelly ripped open his coat, then his shirt. He 
smiled a little. But he straightened his face in- 
stantly. Gordon reddened furiously. He had 
caught the smile. 

“I ’ve fancied myself hit when I was n’t within a 
mile of danger,” comforted the colonel. 

Guantanamo was Gordon’s first experience. He 
himself was quite uncertain how it would result. He 


286 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


understood his temperament as much and as little as 
any one else does his own. He liked his dreams and 
he hated slaughter. But always the thundering 
guns, the cracking rifles, the bugling and drumming 
expanded something within. Perhaps it was then 
that Gordon was the Sweet Devil. For then he 
would close his teeth under his little yellow mus- 
tache and do whatever the thing within wished. 
And, often, that was brutish. But, after it was 
over, the devil would go and the sweetness return— 
and then Gordon was likely to turn priest and nurse 
to the men he had killed and wounded. 

hope the Marblehead will stand by to shell that 
jungle if there ^s to be more of this. It is not neces- 
sary to risk the men against an ambushed foe, ’ ^ 
mused Kelly. He went a few steps up the hill. 
Gordon followed. Each had a tin cup. The ‘‘whew- 
pap ’ ’ of a bullet striking made him dodge. 

‘‘Too late! After you hear the ‘pap’ it ’s all 
over. Not your call this time,” laughed Kelly. 

Gordon struck at some of the hardening mud on 
his trousers. But Kelly saw his blush. 

“I dodge myself, you know.” 

“Oh, do you?” cried Gordon joyously. 

Kelly had seen a little spit of dust on the hill 
where the bullet struck. He was projecting a line 
thence through their position toward the jungle. 

“That clump with the three spikes,” he said. 
“Better move in before they get our range. We Ve 
got theirs.” 

They zigzagged toward the intrenchment with the 
tin cups in their hands, like men at a tea. 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


287 


Four bullets raised four dust-balls just beyond the 
spot they had quitted. 

“Pap-pap, pap-pap,’’ they went. 

“Still trying for us,” said Kelly. 

Two more shots struck further in. 

Gordon began to show irritation. 

“Let me have your glass,” he said to Kelly. 

Kelly handed it and saw his face. 

“Hello!— has the devil arrived so early? That 
looks well. It is becoming, too. ’ ’ 

Gordon laughed— for the first time— and leveled 
the glass upon the clump with the three cactus 
spikes. Kelly put his nose into his tin cup. 

“Probably a dozen,” said Gordon. “It is a good 
cover for them. But they are getting careless. 
They are moving about.” 

Below them the firing-line had begun to answer 
without orders. 

“Stop them,” said Kelly. “We ’ll encourage 
that carelessness until we can put a volley into the 
spot. After that they won’t need encouragement.” 

Gordon stepped down and stopped the firing. The 
colonel had his tin cup up. There was a fiash in 
the clump and a Mauser bullet bored a hole through 
it. Kelly’s face went white, and he leaped back- 
ward. There were some shouts of derision and some 
epithets from the clump. The white in the officer’s 
face gave way to red. He swore at the men in the 
trench. Gordon saluted and reported. But there 
was a glimmer on his face. 

“Oh! go to the deuce!” said Kelly apropos. But 
then he grinned himself. ‘ ‘ Spilling my coffee ! And 


288 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


it was hot ! ^ ^ He shook it off his hand. There was 
another flash. Kelly was still shaking the hot coffee 
off his hand. But there was blood with it. Gor- 
don jumped to aid him. Kelly opened a button of 
his coat and put the hand within. His face was a 
little paler, but he had not spoken a word. Now he 
said: 

“My own fault. After they once get the range 
with their Mausers they can put bullet after bullet 
into the same hole. ’ ’ 

They zigzagged forward again. 

A “Ho, ho, ho!’’ came from the clump shrilly. 

“They ’ll find that dear coffee, I expect. It ’s 
about light enough for that volley. Order it along 
the whole line. Then take fifty men from D— ” he 
slowly weighed the command— “I think fifty will be 
enough— and clean out that jungle. Don’t stop till 
every man is out of range or dead. ’ ’ 


II 

THE SMALL RED SHOE 

Gordon stepped to the line. Kelly went after his 
tin cup, then swore because he did it. There was an 
irregular crackling of the Krag- Jorgensons. The 
clump shivered and disappeared, leaving only a stub- 
ble. Gordon leaped the works at the head of the 
charging squadron. Kelly saw his face and smiled. 
He wondered that there was no firing as they 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


289 


raced on. But Gordon understood it when he 
reached the clump hot with the rage to kill. Eleven 
faces stared up at them. Five dead to-day, now; 
six dead yesterday— hollow-cheeked and blue. There 
was light still in the eyes of one other— the lieu- 
tenant who had been in command. Gordon bent 
over him. The rage to kill was gone. He wondered 
pityingly which one had shouted ‘‘Ho, ho, ho!’’ a 
moment before. 

“What can I do for you?” he asked. The Span- 
iard understood his face, but not his words. Gor- 
don said them in Spanish. The wounded man held 
something out with a wandering hand. It had been 
at his lips. Gordon took it from him— the red 
leather shoe of a child. 

“Juanita?” begged the dying man. 

“ Yes, ” promised Gordon. ‘ ‘ Where is she ? ’ ’ 

His lips framed a word. He could not utter it. 
Something hopeless came into his eyes. His arm 
whipped back upon the ground, the eyes closed. 

Gordon put the shoe into his pocket and stood up. 

“Take his sword and effects, Holland; he has a 
wife and child.” 

A sudden snarling of Mausers came from a thin 
screen of trees a hundred yards beyond. 

Holland leaped up, ran a few steps with his hand 
to his face, then fell. 

“Down!” yelled Gordon, the madness upon him. 

Holland leaped up and cursed. He looked blindly 
for his rifle. There was murderous desire in his 
eyes, but he dropped back to the ground, crying. 

19 


290 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


Gordon wiped away the blood which Holland had 
spattered upon him as he flung out his hands. 

The men emptied their magazines into the screen 
of trees; then fllled them. 

Gordon led them out of the clump to a small rise 
half way to the screen. There they dropped for an- 
other volley. Gordon forgot to drop. 

‘‘Now, then!’^ he screamed, “straight at them!” 
The men went forward with a long yell. There 
was a counter yell. Fire flashed in their faces. 
They left two behind. Gordon cleared the grass. 
Something like a hot blast struck him in the face. 
He spun half round, clutched at the man behind 
him, missed him and fell, doubling down on his face. 
The line wavered. Some one turned him over. The 
air struck him and he leaped up. 

“Forward!” he shrieked. “Forward— do you 
hear ! Don T miss a man. ’ * 

He tried to lead, but fell again, and again got up. 
The line swept on without him. A soldier stood by 
his side. 

“Go on!” he commanded angrily, striking the 
man with his sword. “Let me alone.” 

The man went forward. Gordon saw that he 
limped and had no gun. 

“If /le can do that I—” 

But suddenly he was immensely tired. He was glad 
to thrash limply back upon the ground and lie there 
quite still. He felt no curiosity about his wound. 
The one thing in his mind was rest— sleep. And he 
had these in a minute or two. For when he awoke 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


291 


the bullets were still spitting against the leaves over- 
head. His mind curiously distinguished between 
those which foolishly spent their venom in flipping 
through the fat tropical foliage, and those which 
viciously plunked into the soaked wood of the trees 
as into human bodies. He saw the shadows of his 
men as they zigzagged toward the ambushed enemy 
—dropping— flring low— killing. He knew this from 
the lessening number of shots which replied. Then 
he was glad of all this. It was as he would have 
ordered had he been with them. And they were Jiis 
men — Americans! Hurrah!— hurrah!— hurrah! He 
half rose to shout it! But the dead officer? Why 
should he come into his mind at the moment of re- 
joicing? And the little red shoe ? He was sorry he 
had given that order to kill. 

He trailed back to the clump on all fours. 

Holland seemed dead, but he shook him to life. 

‘‘Holland— take— order. No use kill all—’’ 

Holland’s eyes closed again. He had his hand 
over the wound in his face. The blood was creep- 
ing through his Angers; on the side toward Gordon 
tears had dried on his face. One was stranded in 
the hollow of his cheek. It made a clean spot in 
the grime. 

“Say— Holland— don’t cry,” said Gordon maud- 
linly, and knew that he was crying himself. 

The Spanish oflicer heard him and turned his face 
a little. 

“Agua— agua,” he whispered hoarsely. 

Gordon felt the little shoe pressing upon him. He 
steadied himself over Holland and took hold of his 


292 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


canteen. Holland feebly gripped his hands, paint- 
ing them red. But Gordon did not understand. 
His head was good but for one idea, and he was fol- 
lowing one. He took the water and crawled over 
to the Spaniard. He meant to be very careful, but 
he spilled the water. The officer heard it gurgle 
out, and opened his eyes. When it did not come he 
worked his dry lips a little and was quiet. 

“I 11 get back to— camp— and get— some,’ ^ said 
Gordon, presently ; but he did not move. 

The Spaniard’s eyes slowly opened and stared at 
the sun. 

A knife lay upon the ground. Gordon took it up. 
He meant to put it back into its sheath, which he 
saw. He had a vague, foolish notion of doing some- 
thing to make amends for the water. He reached it 
unsteadily forward. But it was snatched from his 
hand. He fell violently backward, and knew that 
he had been struck by something. In the instant of 
his fall he caught a glimpse of a woman’s face. He 
knew that it was his dream- woman— and then no 
more. 

Yet he thought he saw his men return with two 
inert things between them. From one of them a 
little red stream trickled when they stopped, and one 
of the bearers was crying. He told the man to cry 
away. 

He should have done it if one of the inert things 
had been his brother— if the one with the tiny stream 
trickling from him had been his handsome brother. 

‘‘For ‘war is hell,’ ” he told him. “Cry if you 
like, and thank God that you can.” 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


293 


Then he asked them about the face, and did not 
remember what they said, for he had said and done 
none of these things. He was quite unconscious 
when they found him. But some of the things had 
happened, and some of them he had meant to hap- 
pen, and some of them— like the face— were in his 
soul, and always would be. Is that strange? The 
doctors will tell you that is quite possible. The 
knife- wound was in his brain— and as for the rest, 
he was Gordon, the sweetest and bravest devil of 
them all, with things in his soul they dreamed not 
of. Gordon, who was afraid to stand up and be 
shot at — who dodged bullets— who fought only when 
he must— but who was at his best where a man was 
down and needed a drink of water or a sweet word 
to die with— or wanted something sent to a sweet- 
heart or mother. Kelly, who knew so much of him, 
did not know this. But some one had found it out 
and called him Sweet Devil. 


Ill 

JUANITA 

When he awoke on the hospital ship he saw the face 
again. It was looking anxiously into his. 

‘ ‘ Can you remember now ? ’ ^ it softly asked. 
Gordon stared up into it. 

“Can you remember now?” it asked, now with 
agony and beseeching. 


294 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


‘‘I— remember— things— that never— that never 
happened ! ’ ’ 

Then he noticed that his voice was hollow, and 
that it was hard to articulate. There was a smell 
of ether in the air. 

‘‘What— what do you remember— that never hap- 
pened?’’ breathed the face. 

“You.” 

“Ah— no, no, no!” 

“I know that you are only a dream— that I am 
dreaming now,” said Gordon. 

“No,” whispered the face, “you are not dream- 
ing. I am glad that you remember again. ’ ’ 

“Not— not dreaming? Let me touch you.” 

“You cannot raise your arms.” 

“Put your face against mine.” 

She hesitated rebelliously, and then laid her cheek 
against his. 

“Thank God!” said Gordon. “That is true. 
That is not dreaming. ’ ’ 

Hands covered the face from him for a moment. 
But they were exquisite, too. 

“And you were there 

The hands came down, and terror showed. 

‘ ‘ Where — where ? ’ ’ 

“In the hell— the hell. With the twelve dead— 
me— Holland— ” 

The terror grew. 

“Do you remember? Do you remember all that? 
The doctors thought you would not remember. 
Thank God you do ! No ! I pray God that you may 
noil— that 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


295 


Gordon smiled with the curious sense of surety 
which uncertainty gives the ill. 

‘‘Why, you were in my soul. How could I for- 
get? Then you did not have the phylacteries of a 
Sister of Mercy about your face. I could see your 
hair— your face and hair and eyes, then. I remem- 
ber best the hair and eyes. I would know the eyes 
alone. I have waited for you from the beginning of 
* the world. I dreamed you, and God made my dream 
true. He sent me to you— you to me, in that place 
of hell. You are mine.” 

“No, no,” she begged, “you have never seen me 
before. I was not at that place. No! Your head 
is ill. ’ ’ 

But she plunged her face into the pillow. 

“Let me see your eyes— your soul.” 

At first she would not. But some rift of madness 
possessed her to have him do with her what he 
willed. She let him have her eyes. 

“Were you not there?” he asked of the eyes. 

She fell moaning away. He tried to reach her, 
but his arms were strapped to his sides. 

“The wound,” she explained. 

He wondered. 

“Where is it?” 

She touched a place in his side. 

“I thought— it was— my head.” 

Her face whitened and she hid it from him. 

“Was nT it my head?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Then he immediately forgot about it. 


296 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


“What is your name?” he asked. “Yet stop, I 
know it. It has been in my soul— with, you— al- 
ways— ” 

But he could not think it. 

“Juanita,” she said, in three syllables. 

A vast joy flamed into Gordon’s face as he remem- 
bered it. 

“But there is something sad and cloudlike about 
my recollection of it. Do you know what it is?” 

Again he forgot before she could answer. “That 
is why I dreamed you. That there might be no 
other like you. That you might be quite as I wished. 
I knew you the moment you came. ’ ’ 

The girl hid her face. 

“But don’t you understand that it is not sad? 
Don’t you understand that in all this world God 
makes only two souls in many millions that are 
meant to mate? And even then some devil is per- 
mitted often to keep them apart. And even then, 
one will not wait for the coming of the other. But 
I knew and I waited for you— and the devil of mis- 
mating shall not keep us apart. ’ ’ 

She staggered up and away to the door. She 
was piteously throbbing. Then she came back. Her 
arms flung out to him a moment madly, then she 
turned and ran from the room. 

The doctor came and found him glaring. 

“What have you been doing?” he asked. 

“Bring her back!” 

The doctor followed his eyes. 

“Who?” 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


297 


‘‘She— with the dream-face. Did you not see 
her?’’ 

But he had his finger on Gordon’s pulse now. 
He looked seriously down. 

“Did you not see her?” insisted Gordon. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, ’ ’ said the doctor ; “ I saw her. ’ ’ 

He was going as he said it. To some one outside 
the door he directed: 

“An opiate now— when he wakes, a stimulant. 
Humor all his fancies. Be careful of exhaustion.” 


IV 

HE COMPELLED HER TO TELL 

She came no more, but he was not sad, and he made 
no inquiries. He knew he should see her again. 

But Kelly— unwise Kelly— came. 

“You certainly look a good deal like a wreck. 
But you are strongly on the mend now, and will be 
as good as new soon. Your promotion is sure.” 

He moved a little and touched a spot on Gordon’s 
head that had felt cold. 

“Trephined you, eh? Well, that ’s good. The 
Mauser wound was n’t half as bad as that. I won- 
der who the dashed woman was ? ’ ’ 

“Woman?” questioned Gordon. 

“Why, yes. A woman did that on your head, you 
know. I thought they told you. ’ ’ 

“Go on,” said Gordon. 


298 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


‘‘Well, that ’s all there was of it,^’ asseverated the 
now cautious Kelly. “The men would have fired on 
her, but they did n’t think you ’d like that. She 
got away. ’ ’ 

“I would n’t have liked that,” said Gordon, dully. 

“His wife, poor devil! You remember the little 
shoe ? ’ ’ 

Gordon remembered. 

“You ’ll be all right in a week or two, now. The 
operation was a success. Keep your head straight. 
Then we ’ll go home.” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t want to go home, ’ ’ said Gordon. ‘ ‘ There 
is something I must understand.” 

“Well, I ’m willing to guess at everything here, 
and exchange this whole infernal climate for one 
cubic yard of Pennsylvania air.” 

The doctor did not know why Gordon stopped 
mending, and why his head got worse. 

But he was ordered home, as Kelly had said, and 
there was nothing to do but obey. They were to sail 
the next day. He asked to be taken ashore, and was 
rowed over and put in charge of Holland, *who was a 
little less of an invalid than he. 

He saw her then. 

She flashed upon him down the narrow road like 
a glint of some joyous color. Gordon’s arms did 
not invite her now, though they were no longer 
strapped to his sides. She understood. The red 
flamed into her face, then left it feverishly alternat- 
ing. Her hands had half gone out to him, but were 
shamefully withdrawn. If she could have been 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


299 


awkward it would have been then. But she seemed 
only at the wrong place when she had fancied it the 
right one. 

‘‘Just to say— farewell.” 

Her nostrils fluttered. Gordon only looked at her 
— into her. 

“Just to say good-by. That is what the Ameri- 
cans say. And it is beautiful. It means God be 
with you— does it not?” 

“Yes,” said Gordon, with all the vast sadness 
Kelly had brought. “Good-by!” 

The hands which had tried to go to him, and had 
returned empty, suddenly clutched at her heart. 
She turned away. She took one halting step— an- 
other— 

“Stop!” 

She slowly raised her eyes to his. But she suf- 
fered in keeping them there. His face— as his lips 
—commanded her. 

“I must ask you something. You must answer. 
I must understand. You are in my soul. But I do 
not hope for you now. You know why I cannot. 
You have spoiled God’s plan for us.” 

The girl’s eyes left his for a moment. 

“Why did you try to kill me? My head is not 
right yet. But I will understand. Speak!” 

“I tried to save you,” she pleaded. 

“Yes. Why did you try to kill me, then try to 
save me?” 

She looked up, groping for courage. But the 
blueness which follows death came into the hollows 
of her face. 


300 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


you compel me to tell you— you who can be 
sweet as a woman? Remembering that I am a 
woman, do you compel me to tell you ? ’ ’ 

‘‘I must understand,” said Gordon, 
will not!” 

But it was despair, not defiance, that spoke. 

“You shall!” 

She answered with a plunge. 

“I wished to kill you because I hated you. I 
wished to save you because I loved you. ^ ^ 

Gordon staggered. Who could understand that? 
The wound on his head hurt. He felt for the first 
time the limitations of his understanding. The girl 
was sobbing. She hushed and went on sibilantly : 

“You killed him. He was fighting— starving for 
his king— mine. I had food for him. I found him 
—you—” 

She covered her face and shook. 

Gordon spoke with infinite softness : 

“Men who fight must die.” 

He felt more sane. 

She lifted her face and fiashed accusation at him. 

“That was murder! He was wounded and you 
struck him with a knife. Then I struck you. But, 
oh! Even as I did it I— understood. I struck for 
your heart. But you bent your yellow head to me. 
And then your purple eyes wondered into mine. 
And even when I thought you had died they opened, 
and I saw all — all I had dreamed of but was never 
to know. I have told you. Let me go. ” 

She tried to go, but his voice followed her. 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


301 


‘‘Do you dream, too?’’ 

“Yes,” she turned to say, “of you— of a man like 
you.” 

He did not understand. He thought of the man 
— the little shoe— out there in the clump. Then the 
name came back to him. Something cold gripped 
his heart. 

“I did not kill him,” Gordon said sadly. “Men 
who fight must die—” 

The girl ’s eyes leaped with hope. But then it died. 

“I saw you,” she said. “Your hand was red.” 

“From my wound,” said Holland. 

Juanita turned upon him as some new enemy. 
Two red spots fiamed in Holland’s pale cheeks. 

“We don’t kill wounded soldiers,” he said. “We 
were all three down. He asked for water. The lieu- 
tenant took my canteen and gave him some. I tried 
to stop him. I wanted the water. I made his hand 
bloody. He found the knife. He was going to put 
it back into its sheath. There is a stab wound upon 
him, but not on the Spaniard.” 

“Then it was I— I who struck a wounded man?” 

“Yes,” said Holland. 

“He helped him— his enemy— when he was dying 
—when both were dying— and I— I struck him? Do 
you mean that ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Holland. 

“And you?” 

She made Gordon turn where he was going from 
her. 

“I gave him a drink of water. Men who fight 
must die. But I gave him— drink— of water.” 


302 


THE DREAM WOMAN 


But she would not go. Some vast joy was grow- 
ing in her face. 

‘‘No!’’ she said. “You will forgive me—” now 
she was begging. “Americans can do that, they 
say.” 

“ Yes, ” said Gordon. ‘ ‘ I forgive you. ’ ’ 

“You are teaching me with every word to under- 
stand. Stranger!” 


V 

THE NOTE OF THE BUGLE 

The curious word caught Gordon. He turned. She 
was on her knees, her arms outstretched. 

“What do you— mean?” asked the soldier. 

‘ ‘ Stranger ! ’ ’ she said again. But the word meant 
everything he could have wished. 

He tried to be brave. But she was on her knees. 

“Come,” he said uncertainly, “to the turn of the 
road with us ; come ! ’ ’ This much he would have of 
her in spite of the devil. “Come! To the turn of 
the road. Then I go to the ship— to America; you 
goto-” 

He held out his hands. But he did not approach. 
He clung to Holland that he might not. 

“No!” she said. “Not to the turn of the road!” 
She flung her head back and shook its splendid 
mane. “No! To the end of the earth. And you 
will let me. Life or death, right or wrong, you are 
in my soul. And you will let me ? ” 

But the interrogation was only in her words. 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


303 


Gordon’s face filled with reckless joy, and slowly he 
was going to her arms. Her mood changed. She 
knew. 

^‘Stranger,” she whispered, ^‘in all the world it is 
the very same. You said it. Soul answers to soul. 
Mine answered to you, my enemy. I kneel to 
you. I!” 

She bent her head. It was her loveliest attitude. 
Then she looked smilingly up into Gordon’s face. 
Something glimmered there. 

‘‘Ah, Stranger, is it not sweet— but a little sweet 
to you as it is to me ? ” 

“It is sweet,” said Gordon. 

‘ ‘ But your voice is sad ? ’ ’ 

“Always it must be.” 

‘ ‘ Always ? Always ? ’ ’ 

“You are not mine.” 

“You will not take me ? ” 

“My ship sails to-morrow.” 

“Will you not come back for me some day?” 

Gordon’s eyes drooped at what he thought wanton 
temptation. Suddenly he was tired. 

“I will wait here— on my knees— if you will come 
back?” 

Her voice broke a little. 

‘ ‘ I who made you ill must make you well. It will 
take a long time. For still you are ill at the head. 
But I can make you well. Only it will take such 
vast love as I have for you— and which no other in 
all the world will ever have. What do you think 
of? What is in your eyes?” 


304 


THE DEEAM WOMAN 


Gordon spoke hoarsely. 

“I am thinking of him back in the jungle— the 
little shoe— the— ’’ 

She bent her head contritely. 

“Yes; so full of joy was I that I forgot— forgot 
—my sweet— dead— brother— ’’ 

Gordon leaped at her ravenously. 

“Your brother 

“Did I not say that? Did I forget? Stran- 
ger—” it was like the pleading of a child— “may I 
rise?” 

He tried to reach the hands he had refused. She 
withheld them. He approached and she escaped a 
pace— two— three— But there she poised tempt- 
ingly and held him at bay. “You will come back 
for me?” 

Something in his enraptured face answered. 

“And I need not kneel here to wait? And if I 
go with you to the turn of the road must I then go 
my way?— and shall you then go to your ship?— 
and to the vast, vast America ? Alone ?— each alone ? 
forever ? ” 

Gordon was advancing upon her. She did not 
retreat. Holland saw his face and thought of the 
assault upon the jungle. 

^^To-morrowf'^ he heard, and he saw her joy flash. 

But she could say no more, for Gordon had made 
it impossible. 

The note of a bugle came across the water. Hol- 
land saluted. 

“We must return, sir,” he said. 










• V) 




o^‘ 











X' 




’O' ''^, 3 N 0 ^ 

i> ^ \A ^ " 


e I ' 





^ r/y ' 


'V 


^ 





<t * 


'\ 





a\ » ' ' « 
s 


0 « \ 




.0 



JJ- 

r^ ^ r^ .s'* <‘\ 

O ^ '■=^->. ae'/r/y^ ^ . 





O . * , ., o ’ 



V^' 


xO°^. 



n * 0 ^ 


V 



' f, "C’ V '»- ' " / 


■<c. 


,v 


O 


' « ^ ^ 0 N r; 

. 0 »^ c “ 



<.‘X 

^ V 



r- 


sV 

</' .< V 


c 


A 





<c ' ^ " , A 


^ tt fc?. £> '?-'' 

^ *'^ "' 0 »■ 

^ ® « ^'o -O' <■ ^ ^ 

■i O 





^ . 0 * 




X 


0 


>*• V - \ ^ 

o o' 

^ ci- 

o ’0' 

,0' ' Al'-v % "‘‘° 1 V° ' • "-^ " 

^ r ^ z 

^ v^ /r?7-L^'^ 0 r-^- ^ ^ O 




/ 


\V 

,A \ 


■X 





■iS' A^ ^ 
A' .'CV 




^ 'V V, •. 

X rj^ tt 

s \ O , ^ 










^ (SO 
* . 0 

.o'" ■^'''JJJ'' C. 







0 4? \ 


V^' 


. 0 o 



'^c? 0 ^ 


■%. " • 7; > • ' .0-’ 

. 0‘ ■' 

° ^ V - 

^ .A' ./>. o u// 

-fc O ^ (J 

o" c " <x V ' « ^ 





‘X 

< 


4 





: ■"<= o'* : 

\> ^ ^ « A 




>> 

\ ✓ 

✓' -»'-vvvs^:^ I 

i> ^v; ^ovO^ ^81"' 

• ' ' r,> S-" '., ^. \> t-'' •''z^. 




■) N 0 \ 


' ^o 0 ^ ® i?, 

> '=^. ^ 

#' Vs 




V. 

^O ^.y SJ>‘'’ %. 

■"* 0 ^“ s'"'/, "fe- ’ ^ 

c 'X ^ ^ sr> a'^ rr(v«S /^ o ^ 


V 




✓ --ss^tij^ ''^ A O •/ 

^ i, b '■''' \\ v'fl* '^o 

.A^ s" -^S ^ 

vT 



A 




V 





v^' 


. O n 





^ -d/ <<• *> 

rO" ‘^S S> 

OS,’’ ^ V. 

o 


O 0 


w -s A 





000?173ai43fl 



